


Everything the Light Touches

by fallenhurricane, hoechlinanddylan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - The Lion King Fusion, Angst, Artist!Stiles, But with plenty of humor thrown in, CEO!Derek, Canonical Character Death, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Grief/Mourning, I was going for a 5k Lion King AU and it got a little out of hand, M/M, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Slow Build, Sort Of, music industry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2019-11-09 00:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17991236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenhurricane/pseuds/fallenhurricane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoechlinanddylan/pseuds/hoechlinanddylan
Summary: “Sir, sir, you can’t be here,” a police officer called, jogging over to him. Derek absently glanced at his name tag: J. Stilinski, Captain. “This is a closed scene. There’s still a lot of danger, and we can’t have civilians wandering around, understand.”Derek’s eyes flicked back to the building, and the debris falling from his office. “I, um, yes sir, I understand, but that- that’s my office, I-”The captain seemed startled at this. “Oh, Derek Hale?” Derek nods. “Your uncle was asking for you; he said he was going to call you. He’s right over there. You should go talk to him.” Derek nodded again, a little confused, as a deputy called for Stilinski. Clapping a hand to his shoulder, the captain said, “I’m really sorry, son,” before leaving Derek alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by The Lion King, this fic really took on a life of its own. Please mind the tags and let me know if I missed any. 
> 
> I plan to update every week, but school and work may get in the way. 
> 
> I have a playlist that I developed whilst writing that you can check out if you wish. https://open.spotify.com/user/1264634843/playlist/1QYhpzVWZ2BQ60oOetTDGc?si=m1dSDBr8Q6qk1sMVuYoOTw
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 _The time has come as someone said t_ _o talk of many things_  
_May be true b_ _ut I would rather stick to talking kings_  
_It's easy to be royal i_ _f you're already leonine_  
_It isn't just my right e_ _ven my left will be divine_

\- Elton John, "I Just Can't Wait To Be King"

 

* * *

 

Derek Hale looked at his black and gold Rolex and cringed. He was already three minutes late and he hadn’t even ordered yet. By the time he made it to the office, it would be well after 9:30 am and he would have to stroll into the meeting with Roaring Records with all eyes on him. Peter was going to steam.

“Hi, what can I get for you, sir?” the cashier asked cheerfully as he stepped up to the counter.  

“Yeah, hi,” he smiled brightly. “May I have two dozen doughnuts, please?” She nodded and backed up to grab the boxes. “I need three blueberry, four chocolate glazed, two cinnamon, five sugar coated jelly-filled, three Boston creme, and seven original glazed.”

While the cashier grabbed the doughnuts, Derek felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He sighed, but ignored it. If he pretended he lost track of time when he got to the office, they couldn’t really blame him, right? Derek knew they wouldn’t _really_ be upset with him, anyway. His mother would give him a stern look but then roll her eyes and smile. Lydia might squawk at him a bit, but then that’s why he bought the Boston creme doughnuts. And Peter….well, Peter would be pissed, but he could handle that.

“Here you are, sir!” the cashier said, handing him the boxes. Derek paid and gave her his winning smile, watching in amusement as she got a little breathless, and walked out of the shop.

The late summer New York City streets were bustling with people, so Derek was a little more forceful than he would have liked, pushing past tourists and jaywalking whenever there was clear moment in the flurry of cars and taxis. By the time he got to the chrome and glass skyscraper of Pride Rock Entertainment, he was slightly out of breath and his phone had rung four times. He flashed his badge to the security guard desk, although, as the vice president and also the son of the CEO, they knew him on sight. He took the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor, frantically pushing the button all the way there, even though he knew logically that didn’t make the elevator go faster.

The doors finally opened onto a spacious room that took up half the floor. Crystal chandeliers were spaced evenly along the high ceilings, hanging down over ebony desks and a soft, tasteful black carpet. Derek walked briskly to the back of the room, where Lydia Martin, head secretary for the company, sat behind a white counter, arms crossed with a judgmental look in her eyes as she stared at him as he approached.

“Lydia! You are looking gorgeous as always. Did you do something with your hair?” He placed the boxes on her counter and quickly backed towards the cloudy glass double doors behind her.

Lydia glared at him. “Hale, you know the rules. You are not allowed in there after a certain--”

“DOUGHNUTS, EVERYONE!” He shouted to the room in front of him. As the horde of workaholics crowded around them, Derek took his chance to flee. “Sorry, Lyds! Can’t hear you!” he called over the frenzy, and slipped through the doors. Smiling to himself, he turned around and froze. Four pairs of eyes were staring at him, in varying degrees of shock and anger, only three of which he was familiar with.

“Um, hello, mother, Cora...Peter,” he gulped, edging toward the empty seat at the far end of the conference table. “Good morning, sir,” he said, nodding toward the man on the left side of the table. Once he was seated, he ignored the piercing gaze from his uncle, but timidly met his mother’s eye from where she sat directly facing him. Talia Hale stared at him pointedly until he spoke up again. “I apologize for my tardiness. I...had to make a stop.”

His uncle scoffed from his spot by the window. “Let me guess. You stopped to get doughnuts for the staff again?” he drawled, taking a delicate sip from his glass. “You know we have people for that, right?”

“I think it’s nice that Derek is always doing something for his employees,” Cora spoke up, flicking her straight black hair over her shoulder. “I believe it’s a reflection of his compassion and dedication in general, which are good traits to have in our future CEO.” She shrugged and returned to the papers in front of her, while the Roaring Records representative looked at Derek admiringly. Derek could kiss her.

Peter glowered and opened his mouth to say something, but Talia cut him off. “Let’s get back to the conference, shall we? Mr. Patterson, you were telling us about a talent trade you would like to offer?”

The gentleman cleared his throat. “Yes, Mrs. Hale. Well, as I said earlier, Roaring is representing an indie group, called _The Cyclones_ , that has a great prominence in the urban artistic community. However, the group doesn’t really appeal to wider masses, and so they will not be topping the charts any time soon. As you know, Roaring mostly represents talent that could dominate popular radio, and so we believe this group isn’t a great fit for us.”

“And you believe that _we_ would be willing to take on a bunch of underground hippies?” Peter asked, leaning back in his chair.

Mr. Patterson gulped. “Well, Mr. Hale--”

“Call me Peter,” he smiled toothily. “Please.”

“Okay...Peter. We just know that Pride Rock Entertainment has a history with taking chances and becoming successful with unusual talent. Roaring has no such record.”

“I see. And which client would you like in return for this….unusual talent?”

“We were thinking about taking Malia off your hands.”

“Out of the question,” Peter stated immediately, waving his hand in the air.

“Peter,” Talia cut in. “I know you mean well, but you aren’t qualified to make that call.” Peter glared at her, but she turned back to the man. “Why would we trade you one of our most popular up-and-coming artists for an unknown acquired taste?”

“We have no qualms with saying that Roaring usually deals with talent that are worldwide sensations for a couple of years before they dissipate,” the representative shrugged. “We specialize in three-hit wonders that make us millions in a short period of time. Pride Rock, on the other hand, specializes in making talents last for years, averaging around a decade. We’ve analyzed your history. You make a good chunk of money on each client, but the reason you’re up in the top three record labels alongside us is because you make them _last._ We believe you can do that with this group, while Malia...she’s more our speed.” Mr. Patterson sat back, happy with his speech. “So, what do you say?”

Derek thought all of this made sense. He was actually fond of the music his clients put out. It usually consisted of quality beats and chords fused with thoughtful lyrics, with genres ranging from R&B/soul to acoustic country. The clients they sponsored had genuine talent and interesting stories, unlike the clients at Roaring, most of whom thought AutoTune was an instrument.

“I am strongly against this. It would be a grave mistake to trade a client that is _already_ making us money for a group of…..artists.” Peter said the word as if it insulted him. It was well known that Derek’s uncle thought anything that wasn’t centered around him making money was a waste of time, whether it was conducive to the soul or not.

“Good thing you’re just here to discuss the budget then, right?” Talia smirked. Cora snorted quietly from where she was taking notes. “Derek? What do you think?”

“Um, well.” Derek looked around him. Mr. Patterson was looking at him hopefully. Peter was glaring in his direction, daring him to disagree. Cora was looking at Peter with a worried expression on her face. But his mother was smiling at Derek with trust and understanding, as if she would respect and understand his decision either way. He took a breath. “Malia has a strong voice and an excellent stage presence, which is why we signed her. However, we _have_ been noticing that our vision for her sound is quite different from her own. Seeing as Malia’s album called “Drunk in the Uber” featured her in cornrows on the cover...I think it’s a good deal to trade her for a group that mesh well with our vision here at Pride.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Peter growled.

Derek shrugged. “I don’t think I am, but I respect your opinion.”

“Well, it’s settled then,” Talia said, pushing her chair back. They all took her cue. “I’ll have to talk to my consultant Alan Deaton but I believe you’ve got yourself a deal.” She extended her hand.

Mr. Patterson shook it excitedly. “You won’t regret this, Mrs. Hale.”

“Oh, yes, she will,” Peter muttered, gathering his things. Mr. Patterson ignored him, as does everyone, and after all the appropriate goodbyes were made, the three men left.

“Well, that was exciting!” Cora exclaimed, closing her notebook, and placing it neatly inside her bag. As one of the scouting department’s interns, Cora took deligent notes on what the company was looking for, what went into designing a contract, what it means to have a label looking out for your best interests, etc. Derek knew she was just appeasing their mother until she finished college and then she would go on and try to make it as a songwriter, but she definitely put up a good front. “Derek, did you get enough doughnuts for us?”

Derek walked with her towards the door, Talia and Peter following behind them. “I did. However, I think the staff might’ve thought they were all for them.” They walked out into the large room, making Lydia look up from her computer. She narrowed her eyes at Derek.

“Mrs. Hale, will you please tell your son that he is not allowed into a meeting if he is late by more than ten minutes?”

Talia laughed and looped her arm with Derek’s. “I’ll let him know, Lydia.” Derek stuck his tongue out at the secretary, which she gladly returned.

“You’re both children,” Peter grumbled behind him.

Derek looked over his shoulder at his uncle as he continued walking towards his office with his mother and sister. “You love us. Don’t hide it.”

“Oh, I would never.”

The four of them filed into Derek’s spacious office that overlooked the city below them. Derek shed his suit jacket and placed it on a hanger in the small closet. As his family arranged themselves in the few chairs around the space, he perched on the desk. “Sooo,” he began, then smiled. “My coronation is on Friday!”

Peter rolled his eyes. “You’re not being coronated, Derek. You’re hardly sovereign material. Maybe a jester of some sort.”

“Funny.”

“I try.”

Talia cleared her throat. “You still have a lot to learn, but with Peter, Laura, and Lydia at your side, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“First order of business,” Cora smiled. “Never be late.”

“I was getting doughnuts!”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“She’s right, Derek,” Talia warned. “CEO’s are never late. It’s a sign of irresponsibility and immaturity.”

“And trust me, you can’t afford any more glaring signs,” Peter muttered.

Derek glared at him half-heartedly. “Okay. No more tardiness. Got it.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but then his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and saw that it was his girlfriend. He smiled.

“Let me guess,” Peter perked up. “Is it Kate?” Derek nodded. “She couldn’t wait to call you after work?”

Derek shrugged. Kate was always saying that he worked too much and that he never made time for her. If he ignored the call, they might get into another fight and those were always intense. “I should take this.”

“Derek, we’re in the middle of something,” Talia said, sternly. “Can she call back later?” Derek cringed and shook his head. Talia sighed, a little disappointedly. “Fine. We’ll talk about this later. Cora, let’s go over last night’s meeting with Alpha Productions about the merger,” she said, getting up from her seat and walking toward the door. “I expect you in my office in ten minutes, Derek.”

Cora got up to join her, then stopped. “Why is your computer unplugged?”

“Huh?” Derek asked distractedly, answering his phone. “Oh, the wiring is crazy in this room. Everytime I plug something in or turn the lights on, I get shocked for some reason.”

“You should probably get that checked out,” Cora advised.

“I will, I will. Now, get out.” She rolled her eyes and left the room. Derek put the phone to his ear. “Hey, babe.”

“Hey, Der,” Kate drawled. “You took really long answering the phone.”

Derek sighed. “I know, I know. I just---” He noticed his uncle still sitting the chair, watching him with a devilish grin on his face. “Hold on, babe.” He held the phone away from his face. “Do you mind, Peter?”

“Oh, not at all.”

Derek stared at him. “Please, leave.”

Peter sighed and stood. “Well, since you said ‘please’.” He turned to leave, but then stopped. “You know, Derek, you should really get your priorities in order. Your mother and I are very worried that you just aren’t CEO material.”

Derek gulped. “I know. I hope to prove you both wrong after Friday.”

Peter hummed. “Well, maybe you will.” And then he turned on his heel and left, leaving Derek alone in his office with a neglected girlfriend on the phone.


	2. Chapter 2

_And I can see the warning,_  
_Yeah, I can see the warning_  
_It's brighter than the morning_  
_Keeps trying to turn me right around_  
_And it's all I ever wanted;_  
_It's all I ever wanted_  
_I'm breaking the warning down..._

\- Nick Jonas, "Warning"

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, Derek gathered his belongings, and locked his office door behind him on his way out.  It had been an early night for most of the employees, so the floor was empty except for Derek, Talia, and Lydia. He passed the latter's desk, saying, "'Night, Lyds." She just hummed in response, staring at her computer screen intently.

He had just called the elevator when Talia stepped out of her office, briefcase in hand.

“Heading out already?” she asked, locking her own door and joining him at the elevator.

“Yeah, I have a date with Kate,” Derek answered, pulling his phone out to check for a text from his girlfriend. Nothing. “I’ve kinda been late three times in a row, so I figured I should get there a little early this time. Maybe even things out a little.”

The elevator doors opened, and Talia snorted as she stepped in, Derek behind her.  “That’s not really how it works, but I commend your efforts.”

He shrugged and checked his watch. He had forty-five minutes to get to Kate’s apartment, a half hour away, if he wanted to be fifteen minutes early to their date. That would be early enough for Kate to know that she was _not_ the last of his priorities, like she’d always said, surely.  

The elevator ride to the bottom of the building was spent in comfortable silence, but as soon as the doors opened, Talia’s phone chimed. Derek checked his own again as Talia pulled up an email on her iPhone. Still no word from Kate.  

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Talia said, rolling her eyes. At Derek’s raised eyebrow, she continued. “Peter just wanted to double check that you filed those budget changes after the meeting with Roaring today. I told him earlier that I was sure you’d do it straight away, since you _know_ the final reports for the month have to be finished tomorrow. He’s more of a nuisance than anything, since I _know_ you filed them, right?”

Derek bit his lip and fiddled with his phone, choosing not to answer. Because nope, he hadn’t filed the budget changes. Talia evidently picked up on this, as she rounded on him immediately.

“You didn’t- Derek! You know how important it is to have them ready for tomorrow! What have you been doing all day?!”

“I’ve been busy!” Derek protests, raising his hands innocently. “I do have more things to do than just filing things all day, you know!”

“I know, I know, but you have to know what priorities are. You’re going to be the CEO soon, Derek. Really, really soon. Four days, in fact. You’re going to get to make big decisions and make a lot of people happy, but you’re also going to have to make sure every little detail is taken care of,” Talia said, barely keeping herself from shouting in the building’s lobby. She put her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows at her son. “Those changes really need to be filed tonight.”

“But- Mom, I have to meet Kate, she said if I was late again she wouldn’t give me another chance-”

“If you’re planning to be early, you won’t be late if you take ten minutes to go file those changes. So you’re just wasting your own time now.” She paused. “Maybe Peter’s right about Kate being a distraction-”

“She’s not a distraction, Mom! Come on, can’t I just file them in the morning? I’ll come in early, even. _And_ bring doughnuts. I really need to get to Kate’s now.”

Talia sighed, pursing her lips. “Fine. Go. I’ll go file the changes, because, as the CEO, it’s my job to make sure everything is in order and oversee the company. Even if my employees don’t complete their duties.”

“I know, I’m sorry, just- thank you, Mom.”

“You know, if you weren’t my son, I wouldn’t do this for you. This is outright nepotism.”

“Yeah, I know…” Derek checked his watch again. “I really, really gotta run, though.”

“I said go ahead,” Talia said. The elevator doors opened again, and Lydia stepped out, a thick binder in her hands.

“Oh, Mrs. Hale! I was going to go home and call you, but if you’re here, can you check over these last details for Derek’s, um, I believe he calls it his ‘coronation’?” Lydia asked. “I really need to get everything nailed down tomorrow.”

Derek cringed, backing towards the door slowly, as Talia nodded. “Of course, Lydia,” she said. “Derek, just go, will you?”

“Yes, yes, thank you, Mom, love you!” he said, turning to leave the building.  
“You’d better!” Talia called after him.

                       

                                                                                                              ***

 

During his cab ride, Derek kept his phone in his hand and checked it just about every twenty seconds. If Kate texted or called, he didn’t want to miss it. A block away from Kate’s, the driver pulled to the side of the road as two firetrucks whizzed by, sirens blaring, with four police cars trailing right behind it.

“Seems like something big is going down, huh?” the driver said as the last siren trailed into the distance. Derek let out a noncommittal grunt, not really paying attention.

When they finally they arrived at Kate’s apartment, Derek fished some cash out of his wallet to pay the driver and jumped out of the car. “Keep the change,” he yelled over his shoulder, pushing hurriedly into the apartment building behind him.

He sent the elevator to the sixth floor, pulling his phone out. Still nothing from Kate, or anyone else. He sent a quick text to his mother letting her know he appreciated her help, then pocketed his phone and straightened his jacket and tie as much as he could. The elevator doors opened and he walked down the hall to Kate’s door, taking a deep breath before knocking.

The door swung open a few seconds later, and Kate appeared in front of him. “Hey, so, I know I’m early and all,” Derek began, fiddling with his watch, “but I was supposed to pick you up at 8 so I’m only ten minutes early, and I figured maybe being early would sort of make up for me being late all those times? Which I really am sorry about, by the way, it’s just that I have a lot of things going on at work, what with the coronation coming up, and yeah, I know it’s not really a coronation, but it was the best thing I could think of to call it, and-”

He broke off, raising an eyebrow at the shocked look on Kate’s face, framed by curls of her dark blonde hair. “Something wrong?” he asked. He made to step into the apartment, but Kate held up a hand, stopping him. He ran his eyes down her body, and took in her outfit. “Um, are you sure you want to go out in sweatpants?”

“Why- why are you here?” she asked, sounding worried. Alarms went off in Derek’s head. It’s not that Kate hardly ever expressed concern, it’s just that- no, it was exactly that, actually.

Derek’s brow furrowed. “I thought we were going to try that new Thai place tonight.”

Kate pushed at Derek’s shoulder, and he took a few steps back. She followed him into the hall, nearly closing the door behind her. “Der, didn’t Peter get ahold of you?”

“No? Why would he?”

“He called me to let me know because you wouldn’t answer your phone, but I figured he’d get you before you got here,” Kate answered, ducking her head. “Anyway, there’s been an emergency. You need to get back to the office.”

Derek couldn’t wrap his head around what she was saying, but he knew it had to be serious if she was telling him to leave a date to go back to work. “Do you know what happened?”

Kate looked up at him and shook her head. “No, he didn’t tell me, just that you had to get back there immediately. He sounded worried. Seriously, Derek, you’d better go.”

He nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, I’m gonna- I’m gonna go then. I- will you come with me?” He wasn’t sure what was wrong, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t want to be all by himself when he found out.

“I… I really don’t think I should,” Kate said, shaking her head again. “I’ll probably just be in the way. But they need you.”

“Yeah, I’m- okay. I’ll call you later.”

“Please.”

 

                                                                                                              ***

 

Derek ran out of the building. He waved another cab down and all but leapt into the back seat, yelling the address for the office building at the poor startled driver, who peeled out into the street and hit the gas. The ride was silent and tense, even though the driver wasn’t sure why. Derek’s leg trembled up and down as worry coursed through his system. Peter never willingly beckoned him, so something really bad must have happened, something he couldn’t handle without Derek or his mother. But his mother should’ve already been at the office, so it had to be something terrible that they needed all hands on deck for.

Soon sirens not unlike the ones Derek had ignored earlier were filling the air, and lights were flashing obnoxiously, casting a red and white glow around the area. Derek came to attention and looked out the window. He realized they were just a block from the office. The curb in front of the building was completely blocked by police cars and fire trucks were parked haphazardly in the road. Derek’s gaze flitted up to the 25th floor, and his stomach just fell. A great blaze of fire had blown out his office windows, and the flames had spread throughout the floor and up to the 26th as well. Derek’s jaw dropped as he stared at the flames, and the sound of the sirens blared in his head.

The cab driver slowed down to pass, but, hollowly, Derek said, “Just stop here.” He pulled money out of his wallet without counting it and shoved it at the driver. He pushed the door open and stepped onto the street, the heavy smell of smoke already making him nauseous. The driver yelled something about him having change, but Derek ignored him, quickly winding through the trucks and police cars instead.

“Sir, sir, you can’t be here,” a police officer called, jogging over to him. Derek absently glanced at his name tag: _J. Stilinski, Captain._ “This is a closed scene. There’s still a lot of danger, and we can’t have civilians wandering around, understand.”

Derek’s eyes flicked back to the building, and the debris falling from his office. “I, um, yes sir, I understand, but that- that’s my office, I-”

The captain seemed startled at this. “Oh, Derek Hale?” Derek nods. “Your uncle was asking for you; he said he was going to call you. He’s right over there. You should go talk to him.” Derek nodded again, a little confused, as a deputy called for Stilinski. Clapping a hand to his shoulder, the captain said, “I’m really sorry, son,” before leaving Derek alone.

Derek ran frantically over to Peter, who was standing stoically up at the flames, his skin crawling at the smell of smoke. When Peter caught sight of him, his eyes widened and then narrowed. "Derek, where _were_ you? I tried calling countless times, but it didn't go through!" Peter barked once he caught sight of him.

Derek stood dumbfounded for a moment before numbly responding, "I was on my way to Kate's and then she said to come-"

           Peter waved his hands wildly, interrupting him. "Keep your voice down! Reporters are on their way and we don’t want the whole world knowing what’s going just yet."

"Sorry," Derek mumbled, still aggravated that he didn't know what was going on. "Have they released a statement on what happened? What _did_ happen?"

           Peter looked at him once, then swallowed, sighing dejectedly, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "I don't know. You were the last person to leave. Did anything out of the ordinary happen as you were leaving?"

          Derek paused, remembering the earlier events of the evening, "No, mom and I were leaving, but I forgot to file those reports for tomorrow, so she offered to take them up since I was on my way to Kate's. That's it."

          Peter closed his eyes, letting a few moments pass, as if thinking of the best way to explain the situation. "We haven't released a statement yet, but the police said it was a wiring malfunction. Starting from your office."

          Derek thought about it for a second, then remembered. "The wiring? But..I called the electricians! They should’ve...I mean, I’m certain they would’ve-”

          "No, Derek, you didn't. If you had, this wouldn't have happened, now wouldn’t it?" Peter snarled.

Derek didn’t understand; he had never seen his uncle like this. Angry? Yes. Accusatory? Definitely. But this was….a cold, vicious side of his uncle that had never come to light before, his icy blue eyes sparking from the light of the fire. Derek blinked at him, trying to wrap his mind around how an explosion of this magnitude could _possibly_ have been his fault. He _had_ called the electricians….

…..hadn’t he?

Guilt and doubt settled into his stomach as he thought about how wrapped up he’d been that day. Maybe...maybe he hadn’t. He looked up at the fire, and somehow it seemed more ferocious and taunting now that he was filled with uncertainty.

Peter’s expression changed, probably noting the hurt and confusion in Derek’s eyes. "Leave. You need to leave. Everyone thinks you did this. Everyone thinks it's your fault.” Derek couldn’t take his eyes off the fire. One _stupid_ mistake and this happened. He couldn’t take it.

“But...of course I didn’t. What reason would I have to-”

“I heard people on the street, whispers about how much money you could get from the insurance when everything is passed over to you.”

Derek eyes were still glued to the flames, mind not processing. “That doesn’t even make any-”

“Derek, look at me," Peter held Derek's arm like a vice until the younger man shifted his eyes towards him. "Get out of here. Get out of town. Do something. Go!" Peter shouted.

Derek couldn't move. He looked up at the burning building again, but he didn't feel much of anything besides confusion. It was just smoke and debris. They could fix this. Everything was fine; they could rebuild, right? The rumors will fade in time. No harm done.

Peter sighed, sadly. "Derek. Nephew...Talia's…” He took a breath and stared at Derek straight on. “Your mother is dead."

Derek stopped breathing. That couldn’t have been what Peter had said. Derek must’ve misheard. Sound wasn’t getting to his ears properly, aside from the sirens. He could vaguely hear Peter calling his name, and he felt his uncle grab his other arm but it was suddenly all too much. He backed away quickly, wrenching from his uncle’s grasp as Peter’s words flowed uncomprehendingly through his head. The smell of smoke and metal and dirt filled his nose as the sirens got louder and louder in his ears until he could hear nothing else. Why were they still on? Why were they so loud? He couldn’t see, he couldn’t feel. Just smoke and sirens and ash and whispers. His eyes were burning and it was getting harder to fill his lungs. He willed himself to move; Peter said he needed to get out of town and he just couldn’t disappoint him anymore, couldn’t disappoint anyone anymore, he just couldn’t.

He should call Cora, he should call Laura….

They would believe him….that he would never…..but for sure he was carelessness enough to…

Would they believe him?

He _had_ forgotten worse, in the past...more irresponsible than passing off work and forgetting a phone call...but he _had_ called this time...

They wouldn’t believe him; they must hate him.

He should call his mom, he should call….

Bodies pressed around him as the New York City street filled with hundreds of curious onlookers and greedy press. He used his size to plow down anyone in his way, ignoring their protests. He knew a taxi was out of the question, at least for the first couple of blocks. The entire area was closed off and he didn’t know if he could handle being in such a small space right now anyway.

He ran until he couldn’t hear the sirens anymore and the sidewalk was clear, but his head still pounded with the memory of wailing trucks and the smell of ash. His stomach churned and he ducked into an alley. Derek barely made it behind a dumpster before he was sick all over a stack of old newspapers. He leaned his sweaty forehead against the cool brick and exhaled shakily.

He couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t leave Cora. He couldn’t leave his job. He couldn’t leave his city. He couldn’t just leave his life behind, even if it was only until this all blew over. Who knew how long that could take? Pride Rock Entertainment was one of the top record labels in the country; a tragedy like this would be talked about for years, especially when they realized he was gone.

Nothing made _sense_ . He was just so confused. He could’ve have _sworn_ that he had called the electricians. But...if he had, then they would have fixed the wiring, wouldn’t they? If he had, then this wouldn’t have happened. If he had _just_ filed the papers when he should have…

Derek heard his uncle’s words echo in his head. He had to leave. Peter would take care of everything; if Derek stayed, he would ruin it all. He would somehow find a way to screw up everyone’s lives even further. His mother was _dead_ because of his selfishness. His stomach threatened to revolt over that thought, but he took a couple of deep breaths and squeezed his eyes shut until the feeling went away. He needed to leave. For Peter. The only one trying to help him out of this mess.

Derek pushed off the wall, ignoring the pounding in his head, and dragged himself out of the alley. He blocked all thoughts from entering his mind, only thinking about leaving New York. He ended up walking for a half hour to his bank, numbly taking out $9,000. It was a big chunk of change, even for him, but he didn’t know where he was going or how long he needed to be there, and with that many unknowns, he needed money and a lot of it. But if he took out any more, the bank would have to file a report about it and he was trying to avoid attention. From there, Derek hailed a taxi and sat quietly until he arrived at the airport. He carefully counted out the exact amount for the driver, because now with a financial limit, he couldn’t afford to be wasteful.

“Hello,” the ticket agent at the counter greeted him as he approached, looking at her computer. “How may I help….you?” She froze when she looked up, taking in his appearance. Derek knew he looked like shit. He felt clammy and overheated, and when he had caught his reflection in the taxi window, he saw a pale ghost looking back at him.

A coward, if he was being honest with himself. He could try and say he was fleeing to avoid fucking anything up, and that was part of it. But...the guilt. He couldn’t bare to see anyone’s look of disappointment when they found out. When his _sisters_ found out. That he’d killed their mother.

He thought about calling anyway, making sure Cora was okay, that Laura knew what had happened. His fingers hovered over the virtual buttons...but the longer the seconds ticked past, the more he couldn’t do it. If they hadn’t called by now….they must hate him.

And….hearing their voices would make it real. Hearing their tears and pleas and plans and accusations would mean he’d have to face reality, the gravity of what had happened. And he wasn’t ready for that. Maybe not ever.

“I need to catch the first plane out of New York,” Derek said flatly. He didn’t bother smiling because, one, he didn’t think he _could_ right now and, two, the sight of it would probably cause her to call security on him. “I don’t care where. Please.”

The agent nodded frantically and fixed her attention on her computer. “Um, it looks like the next available flight out of here is to…Boston.” She looked up at him. “Is that okay with you, sir?”

“That’s fine.” He pulled out his wallet, which was practically bursting with the extra cash he stuffed in there. “How much?”

The trip was very expensive but he wasn’t expecting anything less for a last-minute call. When he finished paying and going through security, he had only a few minutes to wait at the gate. He was glad for the rush. If Derek was left too long with his thoughts…well, he didn’t want to go down that road.

By the time he made it to Boston, it was almost midnight. He took another taxi to the first motel he spotted and checked in for the night, ignoring the judgmental look he received from the desk clerk. Derek used the old key to open the door to his room and stepped inside. The motel wasn’t bad by most standards, but compared to the average suites he stayed in on business trips, it was a dump. There was no kitchen, not even a kitchenette, and the small window showed an unremarkable view of the street. Lydia would scream.

Derek perched on the queen size bed in a daze.

Lydia. He wondered if she was okay. And Cora. Fucking Cora; she was probably just as miserable and confused as he was. But...would calling them go against his instructions from Peter? He wasn’t sure and didn’t want to risk it right now.

Now that his one mission was done, he was lost. Completely and utterly lost. He had fled from his home- for what, he didn’t know, but he trusted Peter. He had no belongings; just the dirty, designer suit that clung to him, filled with the smell of smoke. He wanted to throw it as far away from him as possible but he needed more clothes first. And a shower. But Derek couldn’t bring himself to do anything, not even plan for his new life as a recluse, no matter how temporary. He felt drained in the worst way, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

So, he sat there alone on the edge of the bed staring at nothing for hours, the echo of sirens still in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1264634843/playlist/1QYhpzVWZ2BQ60oOetTDGc?si=fwQquI7NT_62zp9QQX2-5A
> 
> Comment here or visit me at hoechlinanddylan.tumblr.com :)


	3. Chapter 3

 

_I'm trying to hold on_  
_Just waiting to hear your voice_  
_One word, just a word will do_  
_To end this nightmare_

_When will the dawning break_  
_Oh endless night_  
_Sleepless I dream of the day_

_-_ Jason Raize, "Endless Night"

 

* * *

 

The sun had long risen by the time Derek picked himself up off the bed.  He ran his hands through his hair, then headed into his tiny bathroom. There wasn’t much to it- only a small vanity, an all-in-one shower- Derek vaguely thinks that he probably couldn’t use the shower head without ducking- and a toilet crammed in between the two.

He splashed some cold water onto his face before staring at his reflection in the mirror. His hazel eyes were red-rimmed, his black hair unkempt, and his now pale face stubbly. He hadn’t gotten any sleep, and while his mind registered the fact that he was pretty exhausted from the day before, the last thing he wanted to do was stay in his room with only his thoughts for company. To be fair, he didn’t really want to be around people either, but it seemed like the lesser of two evils at this point.

Derek dried off his face with a small towel hanging in the bathroom. He walked back into his room, shoved his wallet into his pocket, and picked up his new phone. He had taken the battery and SIM card out of his $800 smartphone, and picked up a simple pre-paid no-brand phone when he landed in the city. He had watched enough Jason Statham movies to know that that was probably a smart idea. Derek figured he should check in with Peter and let his uncle know that he’d left town as he'd been advised. He dialed his uncle’s number from memory and Peter picked up on the first ring.

“What?” he growled.

“Hi, Uncle Peter.”

“Derek,” he said, nearly whispering. “What are you doing?”

Derek swallowed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “I, uh, just wanted to let you know I made it out of town. How’s everything back there?”

“How do you think it is?” Peter hissed. “Your mother is dead, for Pete’s sake.” Derek squeezed his eyes shut at the confirmation. He had hoped that he had heard wrong the night before, creating all kinds of optimistic mishearings and misunderstandings in his head. His uncle’s crass statement was like a blow to the head. “The employees are heartbroken. Cora won’t respond to anyone’s messages or calls. Laura’s flying back into town; I think she blames herself for being on vacation.” Derek winced at that. His mother had been the one to insist Laura take the vacation to begin with, since she had been working so hard as the chief marketing director. She had only been gone a few days, and was supposed to fly back in on Thursday, before Derek’s take-over. “Don’t worry. I’ll talk her out of that. Lydia and I had to send emails out to everyone to tell them why the office would be closed until everything can be renovated, and let me tell you, repairs are going to cost a _fortune_.”

“Did… did the police release what happened?” Derek asked quietly.

He could almost hear Peter rolling his eyes as he answered. “Yes, there was an article about it in just about every city paper this morning. The faulty wiring in your office caused it, of course.” When Derek didn’t respond, Peter continued. “Listen, Derek. The police are saying it’s your fault, since you knew something was wrong with the wiring and didn’t do anything. They think you're a suspect in a premeditated murder.” He paused as Derek let out a small, involuntary breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “At the _very_ least they want to question you, and since the truth is it _was_ your responsibility, no good can come from that. It would probably behoove you if you didn’t take any money out of your bank account. The police could track you through withdrawals, especially if they’ve asked the bank to alert them about any suspicious activity, which I’m _sure_ they did. It would also benefit you to be extremely careful about your cell phone use, new number or otherwise. Don’t contact Lydia, or your sisters. And definitely don’t contact Kate. You’ll make them accessories if they don’t turn you in to the authorities, and you don’t want that.” He paused again. “Actually, they probably wouldn’t pick up anyway, since everyone knows your connection to the fire. It… it would really just be altogether best if you didn’t contact anyone from here. Anyone you knew… _before.”_

Derek sat there, numb, trying to even begin processing through everything his uncle was telling him. No more money from the bank, so he’d have to make what he’d already withdrawn last a while, and only use cash, no more cards. He couldn’t talk to his family, or his friends, or Kate….

“Wait,” Derek said. “Should I not contact you, either?”

“I hate to say it, Derek, really I do, but I don’t think you should.”

“So…”

“Think of it this way- you’re getting a brand new start. Surely you’ve wanted one at some point in your life, and now you’re getting it. You can reinvent yourself. I’d suggest getting a job, if you can. You’re 26 years old; I’m sure you’ll figure it out. But that’s the last advice I can give you, I’m afraid. Don’t risk calling me again, okay? If I can clear your name, I’ll give you a ring.”

Derek nodded on his side of the phone, staring at the wallpapered wall of his motel room, willing himself to feel numb. To disregard the fact that he was losing everything and everyone he cared about in less than twenty-four hours.  “Okay, I’ll… Thanks. I-I won’t call you.”

“Good. Goodbye, Derek.”

“Goodbye, Peter. I love you,” Derek said. But his uncle had already hung up.

  
                                                                                                             ***

 

Soon Derek was locking his door and leaving the motel. He figured if he was going out he should probably pick up some other clothes and maybe some food, since he hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. And though he hadn’t checked, the motel didn’t strike him as one to offer a continental breakfast.

He turned left out of the motel, and wandered down the street, hands shoved in his pockets. He made a few turns at random, and soon found himself outside a second-hand clothing store. Deciding it would be smart to save his money as much as possible- he’d blown through more than $9,000 in a couple of weeks before, and had already spent a small chunk of that on his plane ticket- he headed into the shop.

“Good morning, sir,” the girl standing behind the counter said. Derek glanced at her and nodded briefly before beginning his search for clothes.

It only took a few minutes for him to find a couple pairs of jeans and some shirts, a couple of Henleys and a few v-neck shirts that, though they weren’t his normal style, he didn’t think would look completely awful on him. He found a pair of black leather boots in his size, which he figured would last a while, and a simple black backpack and added them to his purchase. He piled the items in his arms and carried them to the counter. It crossed his mind that he would need to swing by another clothing store and pick up a new pack of underwear sometime soon.

The girl began ringing up the clothes and putting them in a bag as Derek took one last look around the store, eyes landing on a leather jacket hanging on a hook by the counter. The girl rang up his last shirt. “That’ll be eighty-seven dollars, sir.”

Derek turned his attention to her, but his eyes slid back to the jacket even as he pulled out his wallet. “Uhm, how much is that?” he asked, pointing to it.

“Hmm?” The girl followed his gaze. “Oh, sixty dollars.”

Derek hesitated. “I’ll take it.”

“Okay. One hundred and forty-seven dollars, sir.”

He counted out the money and handed it over, taking the bag with the clothes and the boots, tucking it into his new backpack, and then picking up the leather jacket. He nodded at the girl again and even managed to respond with a quiet, “You, too,” when she called, “Have a good day, sir!” as he walked out the door.

His next goal was to find something to eat, so he continued down the sidewalk until he found a small café. It wasn’t quite the grocery store he had been hoping for, but then again, his motel room didn’t even contain a fridge, so he guessed he was living off of takeout, fast-food, and boxes of dry cereal until he found a refrigerator, and, perhaps, a more permanent home.

He turned into the café and let out a sigh as the smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries hit him.  The café was small, but filled with people. There were small round tables scattered around the shop, and nearly all of them were occupied, as were the two sofas angled in the back corner next to a large window. Derek took in the bright, quiet space. He had always appreciated coffee shops and cafés that were large enough to draw in customers but small enough to encourage a peaceful environment, where people clustered to work, read, or just enjoy the company of other customers.

Derek weaved his way to the counter, where he ordered a large caffѐ macchiato and a plain bagel. He paid for his order, sighing as the barista handed him fifty cents as change, picked up his cup and set the bag with the bagel inside his backpack with his clothes before leaving the shop. He wasn’t in a huge hurry to get back to the motel, but he definitely had to take a shower and change out of his suit. Hopefully the place at least provided some travel size shampoos and soaps.

  
                                                                                                              ***

 

After stopping by another store to get toiletries and underclothes, Derek showered and changed back at the motel. It made him feel marginally better, although he forgot to pick up a razor, so he was starting to look a little rough around the edges. However, now that he thought about it, the only reason Derek shaved was because, when he didn’t, he tended to look a little like a biker. Not exactly the look he was going for in the office. But now, he supposed it didn’t matter. Perhaps it would even get people to avoid him for a while.

After getting dressed, Derek stood in the bathroom doorway looking at the empty room. He was back in the same predicament that he was in the night before: lost with no goal to make him forget about the past twenty-four hours and all its horrors. Derek needed to keep busy; it was the only way he could keep from going insane. He rushed to the nightstand near the bed, and found a pen and a notepad in the small drawer. He sat crosslegged on the bed and exhaled.

First, he needed to count and keep track of his money from now on. He knew he had used a big chunk of it already, but those were necessary purchases and he didn’t really need to spend that much of it anymore, besides for the motel. However, he didn’t want to accidentally spend it all and end up stranded somewhere with no way to get back.

Second, he needed to find a place to stay. With no idea how long his uncle was going to keep him banished, he knew staying at the motel every night was going to be more expensive than finding a cheap apartment to rent out.

Which brought him to his third bullet: he needed a job. If he was going to get a place, he needed steady income. As much as it pained him to admit, he was probably going to be staying here for a while. Even when the cops stopped looking for him, Peter needed time to do damage control and, let’s face it, Derek wasn’t going to be coronated anytime soon. He could barely function right now, let alone run a business.

He looked at the list. Short and sweet. Those three things (well, two) should keep him pretty busy for the next couple of days. He should also probably keep tabs on the news every so often to see if there were any new findings or reports on the fire. Once the havoc died down for awhile, then maybe he’d chance calling Peter again. But for now he’d have to wait. Derek also added exercise to the list. Even with his grueling personal trainer, he had always found exerting himself to be refreshing and uplifting, which was exactly the kind of daily thing that he needed right now. Besides, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do.

Derek sighed, ripped the list out of the notebook and folded it neatly, placing it on the nightstand, took out his wallet and started counting.

  


                                                                                                         ***

 

A couple of days went by and Derek still had no job and no place. He didn’t realize how hard it was for people to take him seriously when the only source of identification he had on him was his license. Initially, he was afraid people would recognize him, or at least his name, but so far no one had. Fortunately, he wasn’t as important as he had thought he was.

He was starting to get a little anxious. He had a little over seven thousand dollars left, there had been no word from Peter, and every time he turned on the news, there was at least one mention of the ‘Pride Rock Tragedy,’ as they were calling it. Apparently, they had had a public funeral for his mother on Friday, the day of his supposed coronation. But Derek had only gotten through two minutes of it before turning it off and smothering his head beneath his pillow, ignoring the roaring headache he always got when he thought of Talia.

Throughout the week, though, Derek had gotten more acquainted with his surroundings. He realized his motel is almost in the heart of downtown, which was probably why it was on the expensive side. He ran every morning around town, making sure he passed through the public commons and gardens, because he found he could think clearer in the open spaces. Derek often grabbed lunch from one of the stands and sat quietly under a willow tree in front of the pond. He wouldn’t call it peaceful because he was still tormented by his thoughts, and whenever a fire truck, or even a police car, drove past, sirens blaring, he felt sick to his stomach and had to run from the noise, abandoning whatever he was doing at the moment. But he still found himself calm in certain moments, and...that was a start.

Derek had also started noticing these….symbols everywhere. They were usually spray painted on an outside surface, and were composed of three spirals connected together in the middle. Derek always found them right next to a painted picture of some sort. He would call it graffiti, except the talent and skill that went into each piece surpassed anything Derek had ever seen before, even in New York.

For example, the first time he had seen it was on his first real day in Boston, when he was buying clothes. Across from the cafe on a low cement wall was this chalk drawing of a girl’s downcast face. It was drawn in mostly grey, but in her hair were streaks of blues in all shades. And just below her chin, a little to the left, was the three spiral symbol. Derek didn’t really think anything of it; in fact, the only reason that he stopped to look at it was because the girl reminded him a little of Cora. But he shook off that thought, and walked away. Then, on Saturday, during his jog he saw a detailed, live-action version of Mario and Luigi, with the spiral symbol on Mario’s glove, spray painted onto the side of the movie theater. And on Sunday, near the North End, he discovered a giant painting of an enraged bear in neon colors and sharp lines, the symbol crammed between his jaws. He ended up staring at it for twenty minutes.

Now that the art had grabbed his attention, he started noticing it everywhere. In the subway, on billboards. He even noticed small scale versions painted on stairs and benches, always with the spiral symbol. By Thursday, his curiosity had peaked. He ended up Googling “Boston spiral street art” on his phone. The search brought up a lot of weird and/or irrelevant links but he found out that the art belonged to a group called “The Triskele Movement,” with the three spiral piece as their symbol. Apparently TTM was a bunch of street artists that used their art to help troubled youth in the city, but Derek couldn’t find out where they were located, who the members were, or how to get involved. Not that he wanted to.

He decided to forget about it, pocketing his phone now that the mystery was solved. But that evening, after a long, unsuccessful day of trying to find housing, he saw, as he was passing an alley, an art piece that made him stop and approach. It was a giant painting of a pack of wolves, running together along the walls. There were at least ten of them: some in mid-leap, others just getting their paws off the ground. It was done in white and grey and black, and emphasized by neon orange, yellow, and green outlines and highlights, making the wolves look wild and careless on the red brick of the city. Derek had to walk down the length of the alley to get to the wolf at the head of the pack and, while the others had been facing forward, this one had his head thrown back in a joyous howl, a triskele on its back. Derek didn’t know how long he stood there, but he watched the wolves as the sun was setting, amazed at what the change in colors did to the expressions on the animals. He didn’t normally get caught up in art, but this piece made him feel things he hadn’t felt in more than a week, made him peek out from his numb, guilt-hardened shell.

He slowly took his phone out and, having to stand with his back pressed against the opposite wall, took a picture of the painting, colors popping out in the darkening alley.

“So, you like the wolves, huh?”

Derek started, turning swiftly to face the voice. He saw a smiling guy about twenty feet from him, hands out as if not to startle him. He had dark, curly hair and he was wearing a frayed jean vest and grey patterned skinny pants that Derek would never be able to pull off.

“Sorry! Did I scare you?” the guy said, looking genuinely concerned. “I’m Scott.” He held out his hand, stepping closer.

Derek hesitated, then shook Scott’s hand. This was the first conversation he had had in days in which someone wasn’t actively trying to sell him something. “Derek.”

“Hi, Derek!” Scott smiled widely. He pointed at the phone. “So...the wolves?”

Derek looked back up at the painting and nodded. “Yeah, umm, they’re...wow,” he breathed brilliantly. The truth was: he had no idea what he was feeling at the moment. For some reason, the painting reminded him of his family, and he didn’t know whether it was in a good way or a bad way. But his inarticulation didn’t seem to stop Scott.

“I know, right?!” Scott exclaimed. “It’s totally rad.” Derek nodded again, not really knowing what else to do. “So, do you like any of the other art?”

“Uh, yeah. The ones I have seen are pretty great, though I’m partial to the animals.” Derek had no idea why he was talking to this kid, but there he was. Talking to him. In an alley. At dusk.

“Right?!” Derek was beginning to think Scott only had one setting and that was ‘excited’. “He’s so talented--I mean, they’re so talented...the people who make these...I bet,” Scott corrected himself with wide eyes. “So, listen, Derek. If you were interested, we- I mean, they!- are doing a triple show. Tomorrow, Saturday, and Sunday. There’s gonna be lots of art and drinks and people just hanging out over at the warehouse over on Dorchester Ave at, like, 9, if you wanted to come.”

Derek thought about it. It’s not like he was doing anything. Usually his plans consisted of leaving his room early to go running, staying out all day looking for work, and returning after sunset to stare mindlessly at the television before tossing and turning all night from nightmares. Also, it would probably benefit him to start meeting people and making connections, even though that was the last thing he wanted to do. However, he didn’t even know this kid. He could be a serial killer for all he knew. Derek glanced at Scott, big dopey smile and curls drooping over his face. Yeah, probably not a serial killer. He couldn’t even keep the secret that he was apart of the mystery art group, for Christ’s sake.

Derek sighed. “I’ll consider it.”

Scott practically levitated. “Awesome! Totally think about it. If you decide to come, ask for me and I’ll give you the grand tour,” he promised, backing away down the alley. “Remember: Scott. Scott McCall!” he yelled, and then took off.

That kid was weird. Derek looked back up at the painting, now shadowed in the almost complete darkness of the night. The black and white wolves now looked like the neon highlights were connecting them all together, racing down the alley, with the howling wolf leading the way.

Derek had to admit it. He was intrigued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1264634843/playlist/1QYhpzVWZ2BQ60oOetTDGc?si=fwQquI7NT_62zp9QQX2-5A
> 
>  
> 
> Take a look at the art inspiration here: https://www.flickr.com/gp/156693911@N02/603yp4
> 
> Comment here or visit me at hoechlinanddylan.tumblr.com :)


	4. Chapter 4

 

_You don't know me, and you don't wear my chains_  
_I think I'm going to Boston_  
_I think I'll start a new life_  
_I think I'll start it over_  
_Where no one knows my name_

\- Augustana, "Boston"

 

* * *

 

 

Friday night, Derek was sitting on the bed in his motel room, tossing the television remote up and down in his hand. Some reality television show was playing, and Derek really couldn’t care less about it, or the fact that the contestants were stranded on a tropical island somewhere. The melodrama surrounding the contestants’ hunt for food wasn’t enough to distract him from his thoughts, which was what he had been trying to do all week. He had debated finding the warehouse Scott had mentioned, but decided against it, if only because he wasn’t feeling extremely social after another day of striking out on the job hunt front.

He stared at the screen until one of the contestants used some sticks, a rock, and a pile of leaves to start a fire. As the flames began to flicker across the screen, Derek hit the power button and dropped the remote heavily on the bed before pulling himself up. He slid his leather jacket on over his henley and left the motel room. It was only nine thirty, and, social or not, the warehouse show couldn’t be worse than watching _that_.

So Derek made his way to Dorchester Avenue, as Scott had mentioned. Along the way, several new art pieces caught his eye. There was a large Princess Peach on the sidewalk near an intersection, the spiral symbol visible on her necklace. She held one arm out daintily, almost shyly, pointing down the sidewalk in the direction Derek was walking. He smiled slightly, and continued along. Next was a silhouette of a young girl, outlined in blues and purples, painted on the corner of a coffee shop. She held one arm straight to the side, gesturing with a red rose in the same direction Peach had been. A subtle triskele was hidden in the petals. Above a sewer grate, a chalk drawing created the image of smoke in bright reds, blues, and yellows. The smokey picture formed the spiral image once more before drifting in the direction of Dorchester and eventually petering out.

Derek grinned as he saw these clear symbols of The Triskele Movement, and took them as evident signs that he was headed in the right direction to get to the group’s show. He was just wondering if the same guy who had painted the wolves- “he,” Scott had said- had also chalked the smoke, or maybe drawn the girl. Though those two pieces definitely had different styles than the wolves, they seemed more likely than the Peach piece.

His thoughts were halted, however, when he turned and saw a large warehouse looming in the twilight. Painted onto the warehouse was a very large wolf, at least twice as tall as Derek, standing on what appeared to be a cliff. The wolf’s body was facing the door to the warehouse, but its head was turned so that Derek found himself staring into its eyes. Neon yellows, greens, and oranges outlined the wolf and highlighted its fur, just as they had the painting of the pack of wolves, and the spirals sat in the middle of each of the wolf’s pupils, golden amidst the black. Just as enchanted by this wolf as he had been by the others, Derek pulled his phone out of his pocket and snapped a picture before moving to the warehouse entrance.

The open show was not what Derek was expecting.

He entered the warehouse to blasting music, some band he was sure he had never heard, and a large crowd of people. Less than two minutes into his attendance, someone had placed a red plastic cup in his hand, filled with a strange-looking purple liquid. He raised a questioning eyebrow and set the cup on top of a wooden crate near him, planning on abandoning it. But before he could move, someone caught his arm, and he startled.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, swear,” the girl said, waving her own cup around. “It’s just punch. There’s not even alcohol.” She paused to take a sip of her own drink and tuck her long blonde waves behind her ear. “Unfortunately.”

Derek nodded, sticking his hands in his pocket. “Why’s it purple?”

The girl laughed. “Yeah, I don’t really know. That was Stiles’ idea, something about poison or something.” Derek’s eyebrows shot up again. “No, no, God, there’s no poison _in_ it. The purple has to do with wolves, and resilience? I don’t even know what I’m saying.” As she said this, a tall, muscular man came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She turned her head to accept a kiss, and then addressed him. “Boyd, why is the punch purple?”

The man shrugged. “Stiles wanted it to be the same color as aconite because he has some bizarre idea that drinking it represents strength, since aconite is poisonous.” The girl smirked at this. Boyd untangled one arm from around the girl and held it out to Derek. “Oh, I’m Boyd. This is Erica, since I’m assuming she never introduced herself.” Erica’s smirk melted into a smile at this.

“Derek,” he answered, shaking Boyd’s hand and nodding to Erica. “I was told to ask for Scott once I got here?”

“Scott’s in the back,” Boyd said. “I think he’s making more punch, actually. We can take you there.”

“Thanks.”

The three of them wound their way to the back of the huge warehouse, pressing past jostling bodies Derek tried to ignore, especially when the slow-building anxiety threatened to overtake him. Trying to focus on his two greeters, he found out a few things about The Triskele Movement. Boyd was the chalk artist- the others were decent at chalk art, but really excelled in and preferred paints, despite their risky nature.

“Chalk just washes away,” Boyd said as Erica swung their joined hands between them. “Property owners tend not to get angry at me- well, they don’t really get angry at any of us, since our work is pretty well known- but all it takes to get my pieces cleaned off is a few sprays of a hose, or some decent rain.”

It turned out Erica was the one who painted the images of the girls around town. “It’s kind of personal,” she said, declining to offer an explanation for their generally somber nature. “I’m doing better than I was, though, and I think art had a lot to do with that. Well, art and the guys. And Boyd.” She smiled up at the man, and he bumped his hip into hers. Derek felt a pang as he witnessed the couple’s easy companionship. Though it wasn’t really at all like the relationship he had with Kate, he found himself missing her terribly all the same.

Boyd and Erica led him to the back corner, where Scott was standing next to a big plastic bowl.  He was emptying a bottle of cranberry juice into it. “Hey, Isaac,” he called over his shoulder, not noticing Derek and the others. A boy with curly blond hair looked up from his phone. “Can you grab me some more of the grape? And some ice?”

The boy, Isaac, didn’t say a word before disappearing into the crowd. Scott set down the empty juice bottle and leaned over to grab a gallon of water, looking up as he unscrewed the top. “Guys! How’s the show going?” he asked Boyd and Erica, before his eyes darted over to Derek. “Oh! Hey! You’re that guy from the alley!” He closed his eyes in thought. “Uhm… Derek?”

“Right,” Derek said.

“We found him wandering around like a lost puppy,” Erica chimed in, smiling brightly. Boyd rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “He said that he was supposed to find you.”

Scott bobbed his head as he poured some water into the bowl. “Yeah, I saw him admiring the wolfpack, so I thought he might want to see more of Stiles’ work.”

Boyd snorted. “Well, the one by the door was probably hard to miss.”

Derek tilted his head a little. “Wait, Stiles?” The others nodded. “He’s the one who wants the punch to be purple, right? Something about… aconite and metaphors? He’s the one who paints the wolves?”

“Yup, that’s Stiles,” Scott said. He put the water down, twisting the top back on. “Aconite is also called wolfsbane, since it’s even more poisonous to wolves. Which are kind of an obsession of his.”

“Hence the paintings,” Boyd added, handing Scott a carton of pineapple juice from the floor.

Derek filed all of this away, though he didn’t have all of his questions answered yet. “So, who _is_ Stiles?” he asked, the strange name rolling off his tongue.

“Our leader,” another voice piped up. Derek turned to see Isaac joining them, cradling a bottle of grape juice and a bag of ice. He aimed a questioning look at the boy, who shrugged. “I’m only half joking.”

Scott rolled his eyes, taking the bottle from Isaac and opening it. Erica let out a loud laugh. “Don’t listen to Isaac- he doesn’t even do street art.”

“I would prefer not to tango with the law,” Isaac retorted.

“Honey, this is a full on chorus line.”

Isaac huffed and turned his attention to opening the bag of ice for Scott. Boyd turned to Derek, who was watching the boy curiously, and whispered, “Isaac’s not eighteen yet, and he doesn’t do street art because he doesn’t want to risk getting in trouble with his foster parents. He still paints, just, you know, on canvas. And he models for people.”

“And now you know my life story,” Isaac said without turning to look at them. There was a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“Sorry,” Boyd replied at a normal volume. Erica snorted. “But Stiles really is our unofficial leader. He sets up the shows, he schedules our days at the center, he helped most of us find jobs. He also picked the triskele as our symbol. You’ve noticed that, right?” Derek nodded, and Boyd sighed in relief. “Good, Stiles always worries that it’ll be too obscure.”

“Well, I Googled ‘Boston spiral street art’ and your team came up, so I think obscure is working pretty well,” Derek said.

Scott laughed as he finished stirring the punch. “He’ll have to hear about that,” he said. “Now, who wants some wolfsbane?”

 

                                                                                                      ***

 

Derek was reluctant to admit it, but he ended up having a fairly decent time at the show. Boyd, Erica, Isaac, and Scott didn’t leave him alone the entire night; if one or two of them had to leave for a moment, the rest of them stayed with Derek to make sure he wasn’t abandoned. Normally that would’ve made him feel smothered, but it was oddly reassuring to know that someone was looking out for him.

As promised, the party wasn’t all drinking and music. On the expansive warehouse floor, about every twenty feet or so, were raised platforms where artists produced spontaneous pieces on large canvases. Sometimes Isaac left the group and they all stood around as he dipped his hands directly into deep buckets of paint to create intricate, overlapping designs. In one instance, Isaac used greens, blues, and grey to create a sea storm with crashing waves, his fingerprints making a texture no paintbrush could match.

About halfway through the night, Scott quizzed Derek on the drawing styles of his friends, using the art covered concrete walls of the warehouse.

“That one is Erica’s!” Derek shouted over the pumping music, leaning over Isaac to reach Scott’s ear. At some point Erica had brought him something that definitely had alcohol in it, and it was making him looser than normal.

“Which one?” Scott yelled back, making Isaac roll his eyes. But Derek could see the fondness in his expression, underneath the tough, teenage exterior.

Derek pointed to a section on the wall. “The one with the grey ballerina in the red tutu.”

“Why?”

Derek thought about it. “Because she still seems sad even though she’s dancing. Like...she’s not satisfied or something. And Erica always draws sad girls, right?”

“Not always, but well done, man!” Scott raised his hand for a high five, which Derek gave, proud of himself.

“What about that one?”

Derek looked at where Scott was pointing. There was a spray painted PacMan, wedged in between two other pieces, and it was faced upwards, trying to eat a trail of pellets that ran from the ceiling. “Yours,” Derek snickered.

“Because…?”

“Because you’re secretly a child with an obsession over video games.”

“Hell yeah!” Scott exclaimed, fist pumping the air.

Derek shook his head, smiling to himself. He didn’t know what he was doing here what these people. He didn’t belong and he didn’t know them. What if they were all into hard drugs, or grand theft auto, or extreme couponing? Plus, there was a nagging voice in the back of his mind that said he was wasting his time in this city making “connections”, as he explained it to himself, because this was all temporary. At some point, he would go back to New York, resume his life, and try to help pick up the pieces of his business. But as he looked around at the scene around him -at the people dancing haphazardly in the middle of the warehouse floor, at the artists furiously drawing on top of the platforms, at their little group squished together on comfortable leather couches against the wall- he found himself wanting to know...more. More about them, more about TTM, more about the work that they do. And more about their leader.

“So where _is_ Stiles?” Derek found himself asking, as the show was wrapping up. No one had introduced him and he was getting a little anxious to find out the man behind the madness.

Boyd glanced up at him from where he was helping Isaac count the money from the donation box that had stood near the makeshift bar. Derek had put fifty dollars in there earlier, even though he couldn’t really afford it. Making connections; that’s all it was. “Scott didn’t tell you?” Derek shook his head. “Stiles is at a regional art conference in Providence, trying to get more awareness circled around TTM. He won’t be back until late Sunday evening, so he’s missing the shows.”

Derek nodded. He wasn’t too disappointed. If he stuck around this crowd, he was pretty sure he’d meet Stiles eventually. Besides, he had done enough mingling for the day and was starting to feel exhausted. Before Derek left though, Erica wrenched his phone from his hand and put in all four of their numbers, demanding he text them so they could have his. He did so without a word.

Scott walked out with Derek, since he said he was headed in the same direction. They walked in quiet companionship, the light breeze and slight buzz from the drink giving Derek a weird sense of serenity.

“So, are you coming back tomorrow night?” Scott asked Derek hopefully, as they stopped outside of the subway station.

Derek looked up at the night sky. “I’ll have to see what I’m doing,” he said, knowing that he was going to be doing absolutely nothing. He just didn’t want to come across as too available, a trait he learned from his uncle.

Scott nodded. “Okay, no problem. I really hope you can make it, though!” he smiled brightly, before taking off down the stairs to catch the train.

Derek smiled softly and continued the short walk back to the motel. It was nice to feel wanted, especially after being literally pushed out of New York. Even with Kate it always seemed like he was tolerated, treated as a distraction from her job at best. It only made him want to prove himself and impress her even more. Also, in the unexpected craziness of the night, he could almost forget, well, everything. He could pretend his life was normal and whole.

By the time Derek made it to his room, the euphoria from the evening had worn off and he was bone tired. It felt like he had a bunch of information crammed into his head in too short a time span, from the different types of spray paint to the best places to get sushi in the city to why Erica never wears the color yellow. He meant to write down his findings for the day, because he had a habit for forgetting things, but as soon as he laid back on the bed, meaning to close his eyes for just a second, he was out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1264634843/playlist/1QYhpzVWZ2BQ60oOetTDGc?si=fwQquI7NT_62zp9QQX2-5A
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> Art inspiration here: https://www.flickr.com/gp/156693911@N02/F85k15
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> Comment here or visit me at hoechlinanddylan.tumblr.com :)


	5. Chapter 5

_And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't_  
_So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my road_  
_And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope_  
_It's a shot in the dark and right at my throat..._

\- Florence + The Machine, "Shake It Out"

* * *

 

 

Derek awoke to harsh sunlight hitting his eyes, which was strange because usually he was up and dressed before the sun rose. He sat up, stretching out his back, which had gone stiff from apparently not moving an inch last night and going to sleep fully dressed. He checked his watch and his eyes widened in surprise. It was almost noon. Granted, he had only slept for about eight hours, but even in New York, he was never asleep past eight in the morning.

Derek shook his head, feeling wonderfully well rested, and headed for the bathroom. Despite the late start, he still had a routine to uphold.

The day progressed much like the previous one. He went for a run, had lunch in the commons, went job hunting (unsuccessful), and found himself back at the warehouse at 9 o’clock sharp. This time he accepted his “wolfsbane” eagerly and scanned the crowd for the group he’d grown attached to last night. After his third scan, he found them over by the donation box, swaying slightly to the music.

“Derek!” Scott waved, once he caught sight of him coming over.

“Hey, Scott,” Derek greeted, nodding at the rest of the group and sitting in the empty chair next to Isaac. “Long time, no see.”

Erica snickered. “We didn’t scare you off?” He shook his head. “Guess we’ll need to try harder next time.” Derek glared at her but there was no heat behind it.

Over the course of the evening, Derek grew more and more relaxed around the four strangers. He didn’t know what was pulling him towards them -loneliness, resourcefulness, distraction- but whatever it was took his mind off his guilt, the business, and his past life in general. That was until they started asking him questions.

“So, Derek, we blabbed about ourselves all last night but I want to know about you,” Erica demanded, turning her full attention towards him, from where she was perched on Boyd’s lap. “What’s your story?”

Derek froze. Boyd, Isaac, and Scott all looked over with similar expressions of interest. He wasn’t getting out of this one. “Ah, well,” he stammered, clearing his throat. “I was born and raised in New York. My family owns a business there, but I...um...decided it wasn’t for me, so I came here. About a week and a half ago.” He knew the best thing to do was to be as vague as possible and turn the conversation away from his family. “I still don’t really know the area, or anyone in it, really.”

“Dude, you should’ve told me!” Scott exclaimed, offended. “I could’ve shown you the city.”

“I met you two days ago.”

“Still!”

Boyd rolled his eyes. “Where you staying, Derek?”

Derek avoided his gaze, staring into his punch. “I’ve actually been holed up in a motel. Just for the time being until I find a more permanent residence.”

“Dude!”

“Scott, shut up,” Isaac cut in, giving Derek a hesitant, sympathetic smile. Derek decidedly liked him the best.

“No, I wasn’t going to judge, or anything!” Scott insisted. “I just- Stiles and I had to kick our last roommate out because he was a total prick. I mean, just really obnoxious. We hated his guts, especially since- anyway! The loft has three bedrooms and you should totally stay with us!” Scott looked like he was two seconds away from bursting with excitement.

Derek stared at him in shock. “I could be a serial killer for all you know.”

Scott thought about it. “Are you a serial killer?”

“Well, no but-”

“Then, it’s settled! I’ll ask Stiles when he gets back.”

And that was that. Derek sat there for the rest of the night, barely paying attention to what was happening around him. He vaguely registered making plans for a late lunch with the group tomorrow at two, but he was in shock. In the last 48 hours, he managed to infiltrate a street art gang, meet four interesting people, get all of their numbers, and secure tentative housing for the foreseeable future. Maybe he _could_ make it on his own, as long as he kept his mind off...certain things.

That night -or morning, he should say,- Derek put an alarm on his phone so he wouldn’t oversleep. He laid back in his bed, in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms this time, still reeling. Since he wasn’t as exhausted as he was last night, he waited for the horrors of his abandoned life to overtake him, as they always did when he didn’t have anything to distract him. He waited for the smell of ash to fill his nose, for sirens to blare in his ears. He waited and waited, until finally he twisted until he was on his stomach, head pressed into the pillow, and drifted off to sleep.  

 

                                                                                                                 ***

 

“Okay but why would anyone eat fifty cinnamon jelly-beans covered in hot sauce?”

“It was a dare, Derek! I already told you!”

“Scott, what did we say about doing things that Stiles tells you to do?”

“He dared me!”

“I think that’s how he fractured his skull last summer, right Boyd?”

“Yep.”

“A _triple-dog_ dare!”

“And it landed you with a concussion for three days,” Erica sighed, adding more sugar to her sweet tea. “Tell me one thing, honey. Was it worth it?”

Scott beamed. “Yup.”

“Then, I’m happy you’re happy.”

Derek shook his head. They’d been at the restaurant for an hour and a half already, Derek’s burger and fries long gone, and now they were just sitting around swapping stories. Derek had tried hard to keep track of them all, wanting to learn more about his potential roommates and their friends. Whenever it was his turn, he played it safe and told tales of his sisters and his childhood, leaving the part out about the multi-million dollar company. But the group could tell his family and past were sore spots, so they mostly shared their own information. Like the fact that Scott and Stiles had known each other since they were in 3rd grade, or how Isaac is captain of the swim team at his high school, or how Boyd and Erica met at the supermarket down the street when Erica yelled at him for running into her with his cart.

By the time they left the restaurant, Derek felt like he had known these four people his whole life, not a few days. He felt like he knew their mannerisms and how they would react to certain ideas. And for some reason, they accepted him. Even though he was reserved or would tense up whenever someone would ask him a prying question or declined the offer to light the candle in the middle of the table.

“So, where are you off to?” Scott asked, falling in step next to him after the rest of the group went their separate ways.

“Back to the motel, I guess,” Derek shrugged. He had skipped his workout today so that he didn’t have to go all the way back to his room to change before the lunch. He was dying to make up for it this afternoon before the final show.

“You wanna come with me to check out the loft? That way if Stiles says ‘yes’ -which I’m sure he will- you will already know the layout and can just move in.”

Derek nodded. They had talked about what he would have to pay in rent during lunch, and even though it put a pressure on the job front, it was still much cheaper than his current situation. “Sounds good,” he stated, and they headed down in the direction of the subway.

Stiles and Scott lived on the west side of the city, in a lovely area that was surrounded by colleges and cafes. It was suburban enough that the traffic flow wasn’t insufferable and there was always a green area to relax in, but also urban enough that they could walk everywhere or catch public transit, if need be. The apartment was held in a nondescript brick building with an iron gate blocking the small, neat front lawn. Scott smiled and held the door open for Derek, and as he pushed the button to their floor in the elevator, Derek closed his eyes. He remembered the last time he was in this scenario, going down, though, instead of up, with his mother. He shook his head slightly, blocking the memory from his mind. He had to focus on the here and now if he ever wanted to make this arrangement work.

“We’ve moved here three?...four?..years ago,” Scott was saying, as the elevator dinged and the doors opened up. “It has always been me and Stiles, and we’ve gone through three roommates since then.”

“Should I be worried?” Derek said, half-jokingly, as they walked down the brightly lit, clean corridor.

Scott laughed. “Nah. Believe it or not, it wasn’t us. The first guy moved to Cali after six months. He was cool. The second guy stayed with us for about two years but then he got married. We still keep in touch. And the last guy….” Scott shivered, trailing off. “Don’t even worry about it, dude. Just know that anything you do or any weird habits you might have can’t possibly be worse than that experience, let me tell you.”

Derek sighed inwardly, relieved. He was a little wary that Scott and Stiles would just ask a random stranger to live with them, but now it just seemed like Derek was at the right place at the right time.

Scott fetched his key from his pocket and swung open the door. “Welcome to La Casa de Stilinski y McCall!” He waved his arm forward, letting Derek step through first. The first thing Derek noticed were the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the entire far wall. The late afternoon sunlight poured in, allowing the open space a comfortable glow. The small foyer led into a large living space, which held a flat screen TV, a couch set, and an explosion of art equipment. There were canvases of all sizes everywhere; some blank, but most with half-finished sketches on them.

“Sorry about the mess,” Scott shrugged. “We don’t really have any place to put it all.”

Derek waved a hand. “It’s your place. It’s totally fine.” He walked slowly towards the exposed brick wall where a large square canvas hung on the wall. Painted in stark black against the white was a simple triskele, the symbol the organization that led him here. From the door, it seemed like that was it, that there was only the spiral figure. But from up close, from where Derek was standing inches away, he could see that etched into the black were pencil-thin neon sketches of wild animals. There were birds, monkeys, sharks, insects; all thrown together within the confining figure of the triskele. But what really caught his eye was the howling wolf drawn in the space where the spirals connected, its fur a multitude of colors, connecting the whole piece. In the corner of the canvas, Derek saw the barely-there initials “S.S.”

“This guy is amazing,” he whispered, raising his hand to touch the wolf but stopping at the last second, not wanting to mess up the paint.

“Isn’t he, though?!” Scott agreed loudly, making Derek jump. He almost forgot he was there. “I keep telling him to submit something to a gallery or something but he…” Scott stopped almost as if he was not sure if he'd said too much. “He wants to stay under the radar.” Derek nodded. “So, wanna see your potential room?”

The apartment was better than Derek expected from two young artists in the city, not that he had any reason to suspect they were struggling. The room that Derek had seen was spacious and the kitchen appliances were up to date, but in all reality, Derek couldn’t have cared less. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but he just wanted out of that stuffy motel.

Derek stayed a little while longer and had a beer with Scott, and by the time he returned back to his own room, he only had a couple of hours before the last show at the warehouse. According to Erica, this night was gonna be more informational to the “newbies” than the previous two. Derek did a quick run around the area, a set of push-ups and sit-ups, a couple of yoga poses, and some meditative breathing exercises that he remembered from his personal trainer, before hitting the shower and changing.

When he arrived at the warehouse doors, he immediately noticed that there were more people than there were the other two nights. He pushed his way past the first two platforms, where artists were already furiously drawing away. Derek was starting to get a little too claustrophobic with all the bodies pressed around him and the music louder than it was before. After about ten minutes of fruitlessly trying to find his group, he debated leaving the show early.

“DEREK!” He swung around, hearing his name being called from across the room during a lull in the music. He spotted Boyd, Erica, and Scott standing on a platform much longer and wider than the rest of the ones in the space, and he gravitated towards them.

“Hey,” he breathed, once Boyd heaved him onto the wooden rise. “This place is packed.”

Erica rolled her eyes. “It’s the bunch of people that come on the last day trying to be inducted into TTM. They don’t really care about helping the cause, or even art for that matter. They just want the recognition and popularity that comes with the title of Packmate.”

“Packmate?”

“Yeah, that’s what we are. The official artists of TTM. All of us together make a pack. Stiles is very original.”

Derek chuckled softly. He couldn’t wait to meet this guy. In his mind he knew that much talent and obsessiveness could only bring pretentiousness and/or arrogance, but he still wanted to know more. Why wolves? Why the group? Why the triskele? He had so many questions.

“I thought you guys were secret?” Derek wondered aloud. “What recognition could there be if no one knows you’re in the….pack?”

“Only the outsiders don’t know who’s in the pack,” Boyd grunted, setting up a mic stand and speaker. “Journalists, cops. You know, suits.”

“So, what? The people ‘in the know’ just don’t give up names?”

Boyd shrugged. “It’d be kind of a shitty thing to do. Art respects art. Sure someone might tell a friend about us, but most of the time it’s just, ‘this guy drew this’ or ‘this girl did this’. And also we don’t give out our names to just anyone.”

Derek turned to Scott. “You told me your name within the first ten seconds of us meeting.”

Scott blushed. “Well, you’re different. And it’s not like you knew I was in the pack.” Derek stared at him. “What?! I didn’t tell you!”

Derek just shook his head. He didn’t know how he was different, or how Scott could _tell_ he was different, for that matter. He knew he wouldn’t out the group to anyone, mostly because he didn’t know anyone else, but Derek was technically more of a suit than most other people in this city.

The evening settled into the routine that Derek was getting used to, which consisted of drinking, joking, and Scott making a fool of himself dancing. However, towards the end of the show, the music died down and the crowd faced the larger platform with the mic stand. Erica stepped up the mic and the audience fell quiet.

She paused, milking the silence, before smiling wickedly. “How’s it going, lovelies? Are you guys having a nice time?” she drawled. The crowd went nuts. After a moment, she raised her hand and it was silent again. Boyd shook his head fondly from where he was standing in the front of the audience next to Derek. “Good. I hoped you were enjoying yourselves. Now, as our evening, and thus our three day show draws to a close, we must announce a few things.”

Erica proceeded to tell the audience of upcoming events and fundraisers that would help gain money for the local children’s hospital and youth center downtown. Apparently, 50% of the donations that they made during the weekend went to a family who couldn’t afford their child’s medical bill. The generosity of it all struck Derek. He didn’t even think Pride Rock had a charity, and its budget got bigger and bigger every year.

After all the announcements were made, each Packmate got on the platform and made a spontaneous piece that echoed the feeling of whatever song the DJ decided to play. For instance, Scott received a song that was kind of somber, and so he sketched a soldier in dark pencil from the video game “Call of Duty”. The soldier was standing in ruin, surrounded by bodies, holding a smoking gun in his hand with a downcast expression. It was an excellent drawing and the crowd clapped their approval when he turned his canvas around at the end of the song.

In total there were about ten Packmates, and they each had something about them that was different than the rest. But they were all hugely talented.

At the end of the night, before Derek could say his goodbyes and make his way to the other side of the room to leave, people started throwing paint at each other in celebration. Derek quickly shrugged out of his leather jacket and stuffed it underneath an isolated platform so it wouldn’t get ruined. It was a good thing, too, because as soon as he stood up and turned around, Isaac splashed a cup of blue paint directly into his face. Derek stared at him in shock.

“Don’t worry,” Isaac comforted, tentatively. “It’s mostly water and food dye.”

Derek looked around and smiled sinisterly. “Well, in that case…” he grabbed a nearby spraycan and decorated the blonde boy’s curls in metallic silver.

“What the hell?!” Isaac laughed, trying to get away as Derek held him down. “That’s poisonous, you jerk!”

“Good!” Derek triumphed. “This shirt cost me fifteen bucks.”

“Guess you can’t get your money back, huh?” Derek heard from behind. He tried to whirl around, but Issac used his hold against him. In the next second, Derek felt cold liquid pour down his back. When he finally wrenched from Isaac’s grasp, he saw Erica holding a now empty bucket that had clearly held pink paint. “Oops,” she smirked.

Derek gritted his teeth. “This means war.”

“Bring it on, lumberjack,” she countered, diving into the crowd.

By the time they left the warehouse, all five of them were covered from head to toe in a brilliant assortment of colors.

“How the hell am I supposed to get on the subway looking like this?” Scott laughed, looking down at his orange and purple jeans.

Boyd huffed from underneath his painted silver mask. “Come on. Erica and I will drive you home after dropping off Isaac.”

“Just make sure you use one of the towels from the trunk,” Erica warned. “If you get paint on my seats, I will murder your future children.”

“Noted,” Scott gulped.

Boyd extended his hand to Derek, which he took. “Derek. It was nice meeting you, man.”

“Nice meeting you, too,” Derek said, sincerely.

Erica cut in and hugged him tightly. “You’re my new favorite. We’re gonna hang out sometime, okay? I’ll text you.” Before Derek could respond, she grabbed Boyd’s hand and tugged him toward the parking lot.

“Dude, I gotta run,” Scott said, holding his hand out for a fist bump. “But I’ll let you know about the place.”

Derek chuckled. “Please do.”

That left Isaac, examining a silver coated lock of hair, glaring at Derek. Derek smiled smugly, and Isaac sighed. “I guess you’re not the worst stranger I’ve met.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Likewise.” Isaac grinned and took off after the others. Derek shook his head and took his time walking back to the motel. It was a muggy night, his clothes were starting to stiffen, and he knew that the only thing he had to look forward to was an hour long shower and three bars of soap. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep the small smile off his face.

  
                                                                                                           ***

 

Derek went on a run the next morning, and as he circled the Public Garden a second time, his mind drifted back to the group he seemed to have begun to settle into. Scott was obviously a good person who loved his friends dearly; Boyd was soft-spoken and kind; Erica was sarcastic and brash, but friendly, and reminded Derek a lot of Cora; Isaac was nice, but quiet, and he had a biting sense of humor. Derek was trying to keep himself from piecing himself too hastily into this mish-mash of friends, but he couldn’t help but see now nicely he would fit, and how easily he could grow attached to them.

But he realized that he hadn’t even met their “unofficial leader,” Stiles. There was always a chance that, despite the overall kindness of the group, he could be completely disagreeable. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. There was no sense in worrying about that now. He couldn’t possibly know how meeting the man would go until he actually _met_ him.

Derek was jogging back into his motel to shower when his phone rang in his pocket. The caller ID showed that it was Scott, and Derek answered it questioningly.

“Hello?”

“Hey, this is Derek, right?”

“Yeah. What’s up, Scott?” Derek asked. He sat on the edge of the bed, tugging his sneakers off.

Scott laughed a little. “Alright, so, I talked to Stiles. He says we’re absolutely open for a new roommate. So. Grab your stuff, dude, and pay your tab and come on over! You’re moving in!”

Derek grinned, hopping to his feet and gathering his clothes. He set some aside for after his shower, and shoved the rest in his backpack. “Really? Scott, that’s… that’s great! Thank you so much.”

“Of course, no problem, man,” Scott said. “See you soon.”

“Yeah, see you.” Derek hung up, resisting the urge to bust out the moves to a happy dance he hadn’t used in years. He was far more excited to be out of the motel than he could’ve imagined he would be, and to be living with someone he was considering to be a friend. Hopefully he’d get along with this Stiles guy decently, and this whole roommate thing would work out until it was clear for him to go back to his own place in New York.

After a quick shower, Derek grabbed his bag and paid his bill before making his way to Scott and Stiles’ loft. The trip wasn’t a long one, and soon he was entering their building. He decided to take the stairs rather than the elevator to burn some nervous energy and, well, avoid the elevator. When he arrived at their door, he took a deep breath before knocking.

Scott opened the door, beaming at him. “Hey, Derek!” he said excitedly. He stepped back and gestured for him to come in. “Come on, I’ll take you to your room and you can unpack.”

Derek smiled and nodded, stepping into the loft for the second time. It looked brighter, now, like somebody had carefully cleaned every surface, but Derek supposed that could just be his imagination and his excitement at moving in. The crisp triskele painting was still in its place. Derek gazed at it, until Scott clapped and began heading down the hall, talking a mile a minute about something that happened at the vet’s office where he worked.

They entered the second door on the left, the one that Scott had shown him before. There was a large bed with a wooden headboard and grey and burgundy bedding. It looked like someone- probably Scott- had attempted to make the bed nicely, but not quite succeeded. Next to it was a simple nightstand with a lamp. A small bookshelf sat under the windows on the next wall.

Derek stepped into the room, swinging his bag gently onto the bed. Scott followed him in and opened the top drawer of a dresser across from the bed. “Here you go. You said you were living in a hotel, so I figured you didn’t have any bedding, so I dug up an extra bed set I wasn’t using from storage. There’s also a closet over there, in case you need to hang anything up,” he said, pointing to a door in the corner of the room. “You know where the bathroom is, and there’s a little trunk with towels by the door.” Derek nodded again, remembering the bathroom as the next door down the hall, and Scott continued. “Stiles and I take turns with our laundry and just wash our stuff together. We’ve known each other for forever, so we don’t really care about it, but if you’re not comfortable with that, you can do yours whenever you want. We take turns on dishes, too, we just alternate nights. Stiles is probably glad that you add another rotation to that. And vacuuming, cleaning in general. We just pitch in wherever, basically.” He bit his lip, thinking. “I can’t really think of much else to tell you,” Scott said, shrugging. But then he added, “Oh, your key is right there on the nightstand.”  

“Everything sounds good,” Derek said, feeling overcome with gratitude, glancing at the key shining on the table. “Thank you, really.”

“Like I said, dude, it’s no problem. We needed another roommate, and you seem like a good guy. It’s a real improvement if you don’t get in trouble with the law, to be honest, so.” Scott moved to the doorway and leaned against the wall.

Derek smiled a little grimly. He felt guilty about hiding the truth- that he had basically sent his mother into death’s reach- but it was so nice not worrying about these people hating him for his mistakes. “Yeah, I… well, thanks, anyway.” He unzipped his backpack and began pulling out his clothes and shoes and setting them on the bed, stopping to look back up at Scott. “Hey, about rent. I sort of… it would probably be good if I could find a job sooner rather than later.”

Scott nodded, and answered, “You could always try the art shop Matt- that was our last roommate- worked at. Employees are always getting fired, or arrested, so they're always hiring.” At Derek’s expression of shock and alarm, he added, “The shop itself is pretty good, it’s just that they don’t really do background checks- or any kind of checks, really- on the people they hire. Stiles knows the people who own it, though, and they’re cool.”

“Oh. Okay, good,” Derek said. He was referring to the lack of background checks, but Scott didn’t need to know that. He turned back to his clothes, and started folding them. “Where is it?”

“It’s called Ahadi Arts. It’s not far. We’ll take you by it, sometime.”

“That would be great.” Derek smiled. He finished folding his last shirt and placed it on top of the pile. He hesitated before turning to face Scott. “Uhm, can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” Scott said.

“What happened with your last roommate?” Scott’s face fell, and he scuffed the wood floor with the toe of his boot, looking almost angry. Derek hastened to add, “I mean, uh, it’s obviously none of my business, so-”

“No, it’s okay,” Scott said, running a hand over his face. He sighed. “He was sort of stalking these girls. Like, following them, taking pictures of them. And he made them pretty uncomfortable when he talked to them. After a while and a few, uh, incidents, one of them got a restraining order against him.” Derek’s brow furrowed as Scott continued. “Matt violated the restraining order, and he got arrested. He ended up getting away with a fine, but there was no way in hell that we were letting him move back in. It meant the rent went up for each of us, but it made Alli- uh, us- it made _us_ feel a lot safer, so it was completely worth it.” He stared at the floor for a moment, before shaking his head and looking at Derek. He grinned. “But now you’re here, and you’re cool, yeah? Well, okay, maybe that’s a bad question, since we thought Matt was, too, at first. But at least you won’t break the law or hurt somebody, right?”

Derek nodded, going along with Scott’s assumptions. “Right.”

“Awesome. Well, I’ll leave you to get settled in. I told my girlfriend I’d meet her for lunch, since she just got back from a trip with her dad and- well, anyway, Stiles is out, but he should be back soonish. So, make yourself at home!”

“I’ll try,” Derek said. He gave Scott a smile as the boy waved and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Derek heard the door to the loft open and close, and then he was alone.

He decided to put away his belongings and then check out the loft again, without Scott watching him. He wasn’t going to snoop or anything… if he was being completely honest with himself he really just wanted to study the triskele painting in the living room again.

His clothes fit neatly in the dresser, and his suit in the closet, and he still had plenty of room to spare. Outside his room, he heard the front door open and close once more, and then the door across the hall do the same. It had to be Stiles getting home. Trying to settle the sudden spike of his nerves, anxious to meet the man, Derek lined his shoes up neatly next to the door before leaving his room. He checked out the bathroom down the hall, admiring the tidiness of it, and the fact that the showerhead was at least a foot higher than the one at the motel (where he did indeed have to duck to wash his hair). He stepped past a basket of laundry in the hall before entering the kitchen and pouring himself a glass of water, thoroughly washing and drying the glass afterwards. He didn’t want to start leaving dishes around yet, not after just moving in. He made his way into the living room again, casting a glance towards the television, gaming consoles, and shelf of DVDs sitting against the wall tangent to the wall with the painting, which was what he turned his attention to next.

Shoving his hands deep in his pockets to quell his temptation to touch the painting, he settled for leaning in to gaze at the fragile-looking animals encased in the triskele. He found himself getting lost in the tangles of the neon creatures, lines intersecting each other and the animals melting together. The wolf in the center caught his eye once more, and Derek gave in to the urge to stare at it.

He was so captivated that he didn’t hear the footsteps down the hall, or the rustling of clothes in the basket. But an amused, slightly raspy voice broke his concentration.

“So you’re the one who likes the wolves?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1264634843/playlist/1QYhpzVWZ2BQ60oOetTDGc?si=fwQquI7NT_62zp9QQX2-5A
> 
> Art inspiration: https://www.flickr.com/gp/156693911@N02/16RrE7
> 
> Comment here or visit me at hoechlinanddylan.tumblr.com :)


	6. Chapter 6

 

_Went to college, studied arts_   
_To be an artist make a start_   
_Studied hard, gettin' my degree_   
_But no one seemed to notice me..._

\- Boney M., "Painter Man"

 

* * *

 

Stiles Stilinski was going to die.

Like, actually.

Well, maybe not _actually._ But definitely figuratively. A figurative death for Stiles. Scott was going to have to plan a tasteful Spiderman themed funeral for his best friend, all because Stiles’ poor little heart was going to give out. He could already feel it happening as he stared at the demigod standing before him. Stiles’ breathing halted as he took in the crisp white v-neck and the tight black pants and the face scruff and the –holy god- cute little bunny teeth peeking out of a small, nervous smile. Yup, he was definitely figuratively going to die.

“Um, yeah,” the new object of Stiles’ fantasies chuckled, answering his question. “Derek.” He took a hesitant step forward, eyes flicking down to the towel wrapped around Stiles’ waist.

“I’m Stiles, as you have probably already figured out from the indecency,” Stiles joked, breathily. “Sorry, I just had to grab….” He trailed off, holding up the clothes he snagged from the basket in the hallway. When Derek raised his eyebrows, Stiles looked and saw that he was waving around his bright pink boxers patterned with cartoon frogs. “Oh, god,” he muttered, blushing and quickly hiding the clothes behind his back. He looked up and saw Derek attempting to hide a smile. “Oh, you think my very manly undergarments are funny, do you?” Stiles teased.

“Kind of,” Derek shrugged.

“I bet yours have like flames on them with pine trees or motorcycles or dead kittens.”

“Some of them do, sure,” Derek rolled his eyes. “But I tend to stick with mute, solid colors because I’m an adult.”

“Wow, congrats on that, really. I’m happy for you.” Stiles smiled and backed into the hallway. “Now, as much as this conversation about underwear fashion captivates me, I should really stop being naked now.”

Derek blushed, his eyes unsubtly flicking back over Stiles’ towel. “I agree.”

Stiles nodded, his stomach whirling. He smacked his shoulder into the corner of the wall behind him and Derek snickered. “Shut up, you,” Stiles warned, and turned around properly, racing back into his bathroom.

When he caught sight of himself in the mirror, Stiles’ dopey smile faltered. He dropped his clothes on the floor and stared at his reflection, gripping the countertop. His brown eyes were too wide, his normally pale cheeks were flushed, and his towel-dried dark hair was sticking up all over his head. Stiles sighed. He looked about sixteen, at best. He hoped Derek wasn’t rethinking this whole living situation right now, hesitant to cohabit with a kid, no matter how fun-loving and generally awesome Stiles was.

Stiles unwrapped his towel and slowly started to get dressed, remembering his exhausting weekend. He had spent the entire conference sucking up to stuffy, rich oldies, that thought donating to the arts would grant them bragging rights at the country club. And what did he have to gain from it? Nothing. Nada. Zip. Every last donor that he had talked to had sneered at him, stating something along the lines of how “cute” it was that Stiles wanted to help his community, but that they weren’t interested. Like he was selling Girl Scout cookies, or something. If TTM didn’t get substantial funding soon, then he would have to cut some of the programs at the youth center, just when their numbers were skyrocketing.

“We’ll figure something out,” Stiles whispered to himself, pulling on his jeans. They always found a way to help the children, even if the Packmates had to pour some of their own money into the budget. Or _more_ of it, anyway.

After Stiles brushed his hair into a semblance of a controlled style and the blood in his cheeks dissipated to go do something a bit more productive, he looked sort of close to the twenty-four year old that he was. He looked down at his black Pikachu t-shirt. Okay, maybe twenty-three and a half. Now, all he had to do was convince Derek, and maybe everyone else, that he could be mature and sophisticated when he wanted to be. And what better way to do that than through art? 

“Yo, Derek?” Stiles called, swinging the bathroom door open and sauntering into the hallway. “Do you have plans today?” He found his new roommate still staring at the triskele piece he had made three years ago and chuckled. “Dude, that’s not even my best work,” Stiles admitted, stopping next to him.

Derek shrugged, eyes not leaving the painting. “It’s mesmerizing. The lines, the colors...everything.”

Stiles could feel his face heating up. “Yeah, well…thanks,” he responded brilliantly. “I made it when I was experimenting with the type of design I wanted for the pack’s symbol. It’s…I like it.”

“You should,” Derek nodded. “You’re very talented,” he stated easily, finally turning his gaze to Stiles. “Do you sell your work anywhere? Or put it on display?”

Stiles was learning to be proud of his talent, now that it was starting to get popular around the city. It wasn’t always easy, though. Especially since as soon as his self-esteem was at a normal level and he started to think he could make money off of his art, Stiles was reminded why that wasn’t possible, given the uneasy situation with his dad. He cleared his throat. “Nah, no selling or displaying going on currently. I never have to worry about Christmas or birthday gifts, though. Everyone automatically gets a painting, no exceptions. So, be prepared for that.” Derek smiled softly, rainbow-colored eyes turning to the floor and then back to the triskele. 

Gosh, this man was adorable. 

“I, uh, I was gonna head over to Ahadi’s to grab some supplies and stuff, and maybe sketch a bit. Did you wanna come?”

“Ahadi’s?” Derek asked, turning towards him again. 

“Yeah. You’ve been?”

“No. But, Scott was talking to me about it. Said it would be easy to find work there.”

Stiles nodded. “Oh, yeah, definitely. The workers are always dropping like flies. And not because of death or anything,” he clarified. “It’s not cursed. Or I don’t think it is. I mean it could be. Who knows? They have really cheap paintbrushes, though.”

“Well, I’m convinced.”  

Stiles rolled his eyes and walked to the counter to grab his keys and his beanie, yanking it over his hair. “Let’s go, _Derek._ Maybe, on the way, you can teach me all of your divine methods of sarcasm.”

Derek brushed past him on his way out the door. “I think you’ve got it covered,” he murmured, a playful smile on his lips as he studied Stiles’ face. 

Stiles swallowed, locking the door clumsily. Yeah. He was definitely going to die. 

 

                                                                                                          ***

 

“So, have you been to this part of town yet?” Stiles asked Derek, as he climbed up the stairs from the train tunnel to the busy street. He squinted into the direct afternoon sunlight, slowing down to let his eyes adjust. “Scott told me you’ve only been here for like two weeks?”

Derek nodded, matching his pace as Stiles started weaving through the crowd. “I haven’t really been anywhere, to be honest,” he shrugged. “I mean, I run through the commons and that area every day, but the show this weekend was the only time I’ve really…gone out.”

Stiles hummed, thinking about all the places he could show his new roommate. “We’ll have to change that.”

“You and Scott both,” Derek huffed. 

“Scott will probably just show you the arcade and, like, the bank,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “I, on the other hand, will give you the grand tour of this wonderful city. Starting with all the free, local stuff. We’ll work our way to the ritzy tourist attractions once you’ve settled in at your job in this fine establishment,” he promised, sweeping his arm toward familiar glass windows, displaying easels and canvases of all shapes and sizes. The sign over the door was just a white-washed plank of wood with the words “Ahadi’s Art” slathered on it in red, chipping paint. Just looking at the place filled Stiles with warmth and fond memories. He turned to Derek and saw that the man was staring at him with a strange expression on his face. “What?” Stiles asked, immediately self-conscious. 

Derek shook himself. “Nothing,” he murmured, and pushed past Stiles to get into the shop. Stiles squinted after him but followed quickly. 

The shop was old, seeing as it was built in the eighties, but it was kept up well. The owner, a quiet but passionate old woman with curly white hair and timeless brown skin, got in a new shipment of supplies every week. Stiles had a few of the older kids from the center come in every Saturday to straighten up the place and put some of the heavier boxes away. The doors opened up to a wide room containing rows of counters and floor-to-ceiling shelves organized with different types of paint, handbooks, aprons, and a whole bunch of random art stuff. Stiles had once found a vintage paint box, covered in dust and hidden behind a stock of unpopular brushes, and had begged Ahadi to sell it to him at a price that wouldn’t make his bank account cry. She had wound up giving it to him for free because she’s amazing like that. 

“Yo, G-man!” Stiles called, sauntering up to the counter where an acne ridden guy around Stiles’ age with cropped black hair was studiously doing a crossword puzzle. “I’m here to pick up my order.” 

Greenburg looked up with wide, nervous eyes and smiled timidly. “Hey, Stiles. I-It’s in the back. I’ll, um, just go grab it for you,” he muttered, sliding off the stool and quickly ducking into the doorway behind him. 

Stiles turned around, leaning on the counter, to where Derek was squinting after the employee. “He’s kinda like Isaac,” Stiles whispered, gaining Derek’s attention. “But just without the whole pseudo-tough exterior thing. He has a sister in the local youth program, and they both...they’ve been through a lot.” Stiles shrugged as Derek nodded thoughtfully. 

Greenburg came back with a heavy cardboard box in his arms. He placed it on the counter and exhaled tiredly, frowning at Stiles as he punched buttons on the cash register. 

“Don’t give me that look, dude,” Stiles warned, taking out his wallet. “It’s not my fault the kids waited until the last minute to tell me they ran out of, like, everything.” The dark-haired boy just lifted an eyebrow and took Stiles’ credit card without a word. Stiles didn’t take it to heart; Greenburg was hard to talk to. He was one of those guys that genuinely preferred to be ignored, and Stiles didn’t push it. 

When Greenburg guided the box toward him after the transaction, Stiles held the sides firmly. “Actually, can you hold onto this for a second? I wanna do some sketches in the back.” Greenburg nodded and settled back onto his stool. “Also,” Stiles added, ignoring the guy’s dramatic sigh. “I’ve got another favor.” He reached back and grabbed Derek’s shoulder. “This is Derek. He needs a job.”

Greenburg blinked. “I’m not qualified to make that call.”

“Sure you are! Ahadi loves you.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Okay, but she respects you. And that’s even better, I think.”

“Stiles-”

“Dude, you’re practically her second-in-command,” Stiles pointed out. “She’s gonna be out of town for three weeks and Derek here needs a job as soon as possible. How about you put him on the schedule, and if she gets back and doesn’t like him, then he’s gone. No harm done.”

“Well…we did lose three workers last week…” Greenburg allowed. 

“Right?!” Stiles exclaimed. “And I know you’ve been working way too many hours. It’s perfect timing.”

Greenburg nodded, and looked at Stiles’ roommate. “Do you have work experience, Derek?”

“Um, yes.” Derek said, somewhat hesitantly. “Management, actually. For almost five years.”

“Whoa! You see?” Stiles gushed dramatically. “It’s a match made in heaven.”

Greenburg rolled his eyes. “Fine. Come in tomorrow at 10am and I’ll put you to work.” 

“Thank you,” Derek breathed. “I really appreciate it.” It sounded incredibly genuine, like he couldn’t believe his luck. 

“It’s, um, not that great,” Greenburg blushed, ducking his head. “You probably won’t be that appreciative when you start.”

“Still, thanks.”

Stiles looked at the boy, squirming under the attention and steered Derek to the back of the store towards the door to the private studio. “Alright, we’ll be back here. Thanks, G-man!”

He heard a muttering that might’ve been “no problem”, but he was already through the doorway to his mini-sanctuary. 

The studio was no more than a storage room with concrete floors. Tarp hung loosely on the walls, and sticking out of it were nails, upon which pieces of canvas could be strung up whenever needed. Stiles sauntered over to the workdesk at the back of the room. He grabbed three different sized brushes, a pencil, standard paints, a rag, and a well worn cup. He turned around, smirking at Derek who was standing lost in the middle of the room, and walked over to the water faucet to fill up the cup.

“Have a seat, man,” Stiles chuckled. “Nothing’s gonna pop out at you.” Derek glared at him and hesitantly sat on a spare stool next to an easel. Stiles grabbed his supplies and plopped in the chair next to Derek, placing his stuff next to him. He yanked his beanie off his head and tossed it behind him. “So, we’re only gonna be here for a second,” Stiles assured, running a hand through his hair, making it spike up. “I just need to sketch out a symbol for an event next month.”

Derek shrugged, tearing his gaze away from the top of Stiles’ head. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

Stiles smiled. “Don’t tell me that. I’ll keep you here all night.” Derek chuckled softly but didn’t respond, so Stiles turned to the easel in front of him. He reached down to put the paints and a brush in his lap and the pencil in his hand. “Okay so the event is for a fundraiser for the center,” he mumbled, not really talking to Derek but to himself. “Lots of kids, lots of games and such. So, something fun, whimsical.” Stiles bounced his knee, tapping the end of the pencil against it. “The logo for the center is a key. Like, knowledge is key, unlocking the future, et cetera, et cetera. But, we always do keys...and I want to tie in art, somehow. Since that’s the biggest program there.” He stared at the blank canvas, as if willing the inspiration to appear on it. “I don’t know,” Stiles sighed. 

“What about incorporating the key  _ with _ something? Like the triskele.” Derek suggested hesitantly after a full minute, making Stiles jump out of his thoughts. “Everyone around here knows what the triskele represents, right? It’s like an art symbol in it’s own right.”

Stiles looked at the man and then back at the canvas. It  _ could  _ work but… “We can’t. You’re right; everyone knows what the triskele represents. But that’s a problem. We don’t want the center affiliated with any illegal action, and even though people know TTM donates to the center a lot, they don’t know that I, or anyone else, work in it. Tying the symbol together with the key would be a surefire way to get a lot of people in trouble.”

Derek hummed, disappointed, then looked back over at Stiles. “What work do you do at the center?”

Stiles sat up straight and fixed an imaginary tie. “You are looking at the Greater Boston Youth Recreation and Development Center’s official Director of Arts,” he said with a phony British accent. 

“Wow, so prestigious.” 

“It is, though. I wear a monocle and everything.” 

“That must get the ladies all riled up.”

“It does,” Stiles admitted. “However, seeing as almost everyone there is under eighteen, I do my best to ignore it.”

Derek shook his head, then paused. “What about wolves?”

“What about them?”

“You’re really good at them.”

“Well, thanks, Random.”

“No, I mean...everyone knows you’re good at them, including, I’m guessing, everyone involved or affiliated with the center. It’s kind of your thing, your own personal symbol.”

Stiles just stared at him. 

“And so if you incorporated a wolf into a symbol for the fundraiser, and maybe something about wolves into the fundraiser itself, people in the know would affiliate it with you and your art and the...TTM. But it wouldn’t be such a big declaration as the triskele.” 

Stiles eyes widened and he gasped. “Oh my god, yes! And we could, like, name the different games after wolf-y things and outsiders will just think it’s part of some cool theme. And...and we could have the center’s colors - blue and orange- and maybe have a ring of keys around the wolf’s neck or something…” He was sketching wildly now as he rambled, making wide arcs and sharp lines that were barely distinguishable from each other but that made sense to him. Pretty soon he had a rough sketch of a howling wolf, in front of an almost-complete circle that was supposed to represent the moon, but also the kids’ journey through hard times that they were almost out of. The wolf was wearing a thick collar around its neck, from which four classic style skeleton keys dangled in disarray. 

When he was satisfied with how the lines met and twisted, Stiles tossed the pencil behind him and picked up the thin paintbrush. He used different shades of blue to color sections of the wolf, just so he could see which one he liked the best. When he chose his favorite, he painted a swatch out of the way on the canvas and labeled it. Then he painted the moon a pale orange and the keys a medium-dark shade of grey. 

Stiles sat back, thoughtfully analyzing his work then turned to Derek. “You’re brilliant,” he said solemnly. “I love you. Bear my cubs.”

Derek laughed and shrugged. “One step at at time.”

Stiles smirked and turned back to the painting. It needed a lot of work and he had a few more ideas for positioning -maybe making the wolf more cartoony?- but he was satisfied for the time being. He passed a hand over his face and stood up, looking down at his mess. “Could you help me with this?” he asked, turning to Derek. 

“Uh, yeah,” Derek stammered, looking like he was trying not to smile. 

“What?”

“You got a little…” he trailed off, pointing to his face. 

Stiles wiped at his nose and chin. “Better?”

Derek chuckled. “You’re making it worse.”

Stiles looked down at his paint covered hands. “Oh.” He took the bottom of his t-shirt and cleaned his face with it. When he looked up, Derek was staring at his abdomen with wide eyes. Stiles quickly yanked down his shirt, knowing he was blushing like crazy. He had put on muscles since high school, but he was still pretty skinny, and Lumberjack over there probably was appalled at the sight. Stiles cleared his throat, making Derek look up. “What about now?” he asked, wincing at the crack in his voice. 

“Better.” Derek nodded after a second, quickly bending down to gather the supplies. 

After they had packed everything away, taking the time to wash the brushes and setting aside the canvas to dry, Stiles and Derek walked back to the main part of the store, waving to Greenburg and strolling out the front door. 

Stiles looked at his watch. “So, Scott should be back at the apartment in a few. Wanna grab a pizza on the way back? Maybe do bro-bonding time with bad action movies for the rest of the day?”

Derek nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

“Alright,” Stiles confirmed, patting Derek on the shoulder. “Let’s go home, big guy.”

Derek stiffened and glanced at Stiles with an indecipherable look. When Stiles just stared back at him confusedly, he relaxed a bit and nodded. “Sure, okay. Let’s...go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1264634843/playlist/1QYhpzVWZ2BQ60oOetTDGc?si=fwQquI7NT_62zp9QQX2-5A
> 
> Comment here or visit me at hoechlinanddylan.tumblr.com :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will try to update every week, depending on school and work.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Lean on me, when you're not strong_   
_And I'll be your friend_   
_I'll help you carry on_   
_For it won't be long_   
_'Til I'm gonna need_   
_Somebody to lean on..._

\- Bill Withers/Club Nouveau, "Lean On Me" 

* * *

 

The next day, Stiles was on his way out of the loft when he saw Derek standing in the kitchen, downing a glass of milk. “You ready for work?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.

Derek nodded, rinsing his glass and setting it in the sink. “I’m just about to leave.”

“Well, good luck! Don’t let Greenburg be too hard on you,” Stiles said, winking. He raised a hand in goodbye, grabbed his jacket, and left for the community center.

The day passed smoothly. Stiles spoke to a few of the kids’ parents about their progress, monitored some children working on new clay sculptures, and introduced a new teenager to the program. That late afternoon, he handed duties off to Boyd and Erica and headed down towards Ahadi’s Art.

He could see Derek through the window, restocking a shelf of acrylic paints. Stiles opened the door and waved at Greenburg, who nodded back at him. “Hey, Derek, how’s it going?”

Derek put down a tube of paint and glanced over his shoulder at Stiles. “Pretty good.”

“When do you get off?”

“Uh, I’m not sure-” Derek began.

Stiles cut him off and turned towards Greenburg. “Hey, Derek’s gonna head out after he finishes this, okay?”

Derek gaped at Stiles as Greenburg replied with, “Whatever.”

Stiles thumped a hand on Derek’s shoulder and said, “Now, we celebrate your new job. Finish up and meet me outside.”

  
                                                                                                    ***

 

“Bugs ‘N Grubs?” Derek asked.  “What kind of name is that? It sounds disgusting.”

Stiles froze, and Derek, who had been following him and Scott, barely stopped himself from bumping into Stiles. “Um, what?” Stiles turned, setting his hands on his hips. Derek wrinkled his nose at him, which, okay. _Adorable_ . But that definitely wasn’t the point right now. “Bugs ‘N Grubs is the single most absolutely freaking delicious food source in all of Boston and quite possibly and probably the whole entire world, known and unknown. How _dare_ you call it disgusting?!”

Scott raised his hands in between the two as if breaking up a fight. “Well, okay, in Derek’s defense, he hasn’t actually _had_ the food.”

Stiles sputtered, arms flailing, as Derek mumbled, “And the name has ‘bugs’ in it.”

“Scott, you traitor,” Stiles said, pointing sternly at the boy. “Derek, you have to try the food. I’m not giving you an out. You’ll like it, it’s impossible not to.” He ignored Derek’s raised eyebrows and walked over to the truck.

“What can I get you, sir?” the man standing in the food truck asked.

Stiles pulled some cash out of his wallet as he ordered. “Two Larvae Dogs, one Ladybug,” he said, and then hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Derek, “and one Praying Mantis. Oh, and three iced teas.”

The man nodded, calling the orders back, and within minutes Stiles was handing Scott and Derek their food and cold styrofoam cups. He led them over to a bench nearby and sat down, setting his cup on the ground between his feet. Scott sat next to him, quickly unwrapping the first of his two hot dogs and practically inhaling it.

“What _is_ that?” Derek asked, pointing to Scott’s rapidly disappearing hot dog.   
Stiles followed Derek’s finger and answered around the bite of hot dog in his own mouth. “What, the Larvae Dog?”

“The stuff on it,” Derek said, his nose wrinkling again. He was really going to have to stop that if Stiles wanted to have any hope of surviving.

“Oh.” Stiles held up a finger, telling Derek to give him a minute. He swallowed his mouthful of hot dog. “It’s piccalilli. Diced sweet peppers, but not as sweet as in relish. Well, in Boston, anyway. The ingredients in piccalilli change depending on where you are. In Britain, it’s cauliflower and stuff, but it’s all based off of the Indian pickle relish, which-”

“I think he gets it,” Scott said before he unwrapped his second dog.

Stiles stuck his tongue out at him, but conceded. He saw Derek watching them amusedly. “Fine. Now, why is your food still wrapped? Dig in, big guy!” Derek hesitated, glancing at the hot dog, and Stiles sighed, shaking his head. “Dude, I will rip the wrapper off for you and shove it down your throat if you don’t at least try it.”

Scott choked next to him. “Dammit, Stiles, I’m trying to _eat_ here.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and flipped Scott off, choosing to momentarily ignore the way Derek’s cheeks were tinged pink. That would be filed away to think about later. “C’mon, Derek, have we ever lead you astray before?”

Derek’s brow furrowed. “I haven’t known you that long.”

“That’s beside the point. Eat the hot dog! Eat the hot dog!” Stiles began to chant, thumping his fist on his knee. He beamed as Derek unwrapped the hot dog and stared at it with a worried look on his face. Stiles couldn’t imagine why because it looked absolutely divine. There was a beautifully bacon-wrapped sausage on a mustard-slathered bun, heaped with sweet relish, some fried onions, and cheese fries.

“This is going to cost me a week’s worth of workouts,” Derek huffed.

Stiles grinned. “That’s the best part! They’re guilty pleasure foods!”

“I don’t believe in guilty pleasures,” Derek said. He shook his head. “I don’t think I can eat this.”  
“Dude, please,” Stiles said, setting his hot dog on his knee and raising his clasped hands in front of him. “Just try. The. Hot. Dog. What do I have to do, dress in drag and do the hula?”

“Luau!” Scott yelled to literally no one, immediately jumping into the world’s worst rendition of a seated hulu performance ever recorded.

Derek just stared at Stiles, squinting, and he could feel his cheeks turn bright red under the other man’s gaze. “Fine,” Derek said. He lifted the hot dog to his mouth, and Stiles watched as he took a small bite.

“No, c’mon, you gotta try more than that!” Stiles objected. He finished off his own hot dog as Derek rolled his eyes and took a bigger bite. Scott laughed.

Stiles cheered as Derek finished his hot dog and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He didn’t stare at the man’s mouth at all as he licked his lips after. Nope.

“See, now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Stiles asked. He picked up his iced tea and sipped at it, watching Derek over the top of his cup.

The other man just stared at him as he deadpanned, “I’ve never faced anything more difficult in my life.”

“The man’s still got sarcasm downpat, folks.” Stiles rolled his eyes as Derek smirked.

The three of them sipped their teas in relative silence until Derek asked, “Wait, why was that called the Praying Mantis?”

Grinning wickedly, Stiles said, “Because there are so many calories you have to pray for forgiveness.” He cackled as Derek groaned.

The rest of the evening passed without incident. Stiles may or may not have let Scott take the lead more than he normally would as they showed Derek around other parts of the city, and it may or may not have served the purpose of letting him appreciate the way Derek’s jeans fit him. Maybe. Nobody would ever know.

Derek didn’t say much as they took him first to an arcade (Scott’s demand) and then whatever else crossed their minds. An old theater, a comic book store, and a movie theater, where Scott pointed to a poster for _Avengers: Infinity War_ and insisted they go watch it.

“I never saw the last few,” Derek said, frowning as Scott bought the tickets and popcorn. “Think I stopped after _Ultron_ , maybe?”

Stiles waved a hand, dismissing his worries. “You know the characters, though, right? O.G. Avengers plus some aliens, a wizard, badass king dressed as a cat, and your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Basically, at this point Thor’s planet is in shambles, and Captain America and Iron Man are broken up because Cap thinks Tony is careless and doesn’t take responsibility for his actions, while Tony is mad Cap hid the truth behind his parents being killed.”   
Derek swallowed thickly before nodding, directing his gaze momentarily to the floor. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds….I think I’ve read that somewhere.”  
Stiles squinted at Derek, noticing how he shook his head before turning back to Stiles. “Um,” Stiles continued slowly, confused, “so, yeah. It’s just a continuation of that storyline, I guess. It’s pretty intense, though. I saw it last week with Boyd, Isaac, and Erica.”

“Why didn’t Scott come, too?” Derek asked, sounding mostly normal again.

“He was out with his girlfriend. She’s more of a DC/Batman fan.” Stiles stuck his tongue out. “But I’m not really into the whole dark and broody, mass destruction, production-agency-can’t-afford-good-lighting, stichk, you know? I like a little light comedy. Superheroes with average flaws, kinda deal. Plus, it’s not like any of the Chris-es are hard on the eyes.”

Derek’s gaze flickered to the floor again and a frown took over his features for a second, before he schooled them back into a slight smirk. “So you only like the movie for the actors?”

“Of course not. But I can appreciate attractive people.”

Scott walked back over then, cradling two buckets of popcorn. “We didn’t have money for three,” he said. “I figured we could share.” Stiles nodded and took two of the tickets from Scott, handing one to Derek. “Alright! Let’s go! No spoilers this time, Stiles, _please.”_

Stiles snorted and the three of them trailed into the theater, taking seats with Derek closest to the aisle and Stiles between he and Scott. Stiles took a bucket of popcorn from Scott and balanced it on his knee, then nudged Derek. “Do you mind sharing?”

Derek shook his head, giving him a small smile, and Stiles grinned back at him before turning to face the screen right as the previews began. The movie started not long after, and they were all immediately captivated, Stiles catching things he hadn’t noticed before. He kept looking over to make sure Scott and Derek were enjoying themselves, and he smiled at how both pairs of eyes were glued to the screen.

Three-fourths of the way into the film, Stiles reached into the popcorn bucket distractedly and felt his hand meeting something that was warm and decidedly _not_ the snack he was searching for. His eyes widened and he attempted to smoothly but quickly move his hand away from Derek’s. What actually happened is that he flicked a bunch of popcorn onto the theater floor, nearly upending the bucket, as he jerked his hand away and back into his lap. He stared resolutely at the screen, feeling his cheeks burning and ignoring Derek’s stare aimed at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Derek slowly withdraw his hand, holding a few pieces of popcorn, and turn back to the screen, frowning.

Stiles sighed heavily and wished simultaneously for the movie to end and to never have to see Derek’s face again. He lifted the bucket from his knee and placed it on Derek’s, then leaned towards Scott, covering his eyes with a hand.

 

                                                                                                                ***

 

The movie ended, and Stiles shuffled out of the theater behind Scott and Derek into the night air. Scott and Derek discussed the movie and its cliffhanger, and Stiles laughed and hummed when he felt it was right, but mostly he stewed in his embarrassment. Which was concerning, to an extent, because Stiles had humiliated himself many times in his life- this didn’t even fit in the top ten times, objectively- but for some reason, he couldn’t shake this one off like he could every other experience.

It was getting pretty late but it was a lovely night, being one of the first few of fall, and so they walked until they came to the center of downtown, where Derek paused, staring at the trees in awe. They were wrapped in string lights, glowing in the darkness over the cobblestone walkways. Scott folded his arms and grinned. Stiles watched as Derek turned, his gaze jumping from tree to tree, building to building, gaping. The popcorn fiasco fell out of his mind completely.

Stiles smiled. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Derek nodded, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“My mom used to tell me about this place,” Stiles continued. He blinked a few times, realizing how long it had been since he had last spoken about his mother. It was still hard. “She visited a few times when she was in college. She said it was like the stars had landed on earth, in the middle of the greatest city in the world.” He paused, swallowing. “She loved it here.”

“That’s… my mom always used to say...” Derek said slowly. He cleared his throat.  “...that the stars were our loved ones who had passed on, watching over us.” He looked at the sky as he said it, the stars that were barely visible, and crossed his arms over his chest like he was holding himself together. Stiles had never seen someone look so much like they needed a hug.

Scott snorted from where he stood, laughing. Stiles sent an intense glare at him before smiling softly at Derek, reaching out to touch his arm. “Your mom sounds amazing.”  
Derek didn’t meet his gaze. “She was.” Stiles saw Derek’s arm moving before he saw the tears, and Derek wiped his face with the cuff of his sleeve. That sealed Stiles’ guess that Derek’s mother had passed, then, and probably pretty recently.

Stiles patted his arm gently. “I’m beat. Let’s head home.” Derek nodded, and the three of them turned and walked back into the night together.

  
                                                                                                                     ***

 

Having a stranger as a new roommate wasn’t as a big of an adjustment as Stiles thought it would be. Derek fell into his and Scott’s routine as easily as if they’d all known each other for years. In fact, Stiles was thinking of kicking Scott out and just keeping Derek. Just kidding. But actually. Derek never left his clothes all over the place and he washed his dishes as soon as he dirtied them. He never took too long in the shower either, unlike Scott who Stiles swore fell asleep in there at least three times a week.

Derek did have some odd quirks, though. He wouldn’t watch the news, he could barely tolerate the radio, and he couldn’t stand peanut butter. Yeah, it was weird. Also, one time Scott severely burnt the popcorn for the movie night (that smell was nauseating for days), setting off the smoke detectors, and Derek ran out of the apartment without any explanation and didn’t show up until hours later. Also, Stiles found him at crazy hours of the night doing mindless pushups in his room or sit-ups in the hallway or pull-ups from the doorsill. Which... _yes._ But it happened so often that Stiles deduced that maybe the dude was a bit of an insomniac. Like, no matter how early Derek got up or how long the guys stayed up that night, Derek just couldn’t get to sleep. Stiles kept asking him about it, suggesting a change in the temperature, better pillows, _something,_ and Derek just responded with, “It’s fine, Stiles,” in that gruff, hot voice of his. It obviously wasn’t fine but Stiles wasn’t the one to pester. Okay, yes he was, but in this case Stiles knew he had to be subtle about things.

About a week into their new living arrangements, Stiles woke up in the middle of the night desperately needing a glass of water. Or a bucket of water. Which is what happened when you ate a whole bag of salt-n-vinegar chips right before you went to bed. Upon passing the living room to get to the kitchen, he saw a silhouette in the dark sitting on a stool facing the window.

“Derek?” Stiles asked squinting without his glasses or contacts, stopping in his quest. “What are you doing up?”

The shadow didn’t turn from the window but Stiles thought he saw a huge mass that could’ve been a shoulder move up and down. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Stiles sighed softly and walked forward towards the man, making out more of his features. Derek was still wearing one of his too-tight Henley’s and a sinful pair of jeans. “Seems like you really tried, with those comfortable pajamas you’re wearing.” Derek didn’t comment and Stiles decided to drop it. “Hey, how about we watch a movie? Put it on low so as not to disturb the working vet’s assistant down the hall? Though, to be honest that man can and has slept through a category 4 earthquake before so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Derek finally turned his head towards him, face pale in the moonlight, dark shadows around his eyes. Whatever he was seeing out the window, wasn’t the nighttime Boston streets. “I...that’s okay, Stiles. Go back to sleep. I’ll be alright.”

“Too bad that wasn’t _really_ a request,” Stiles said, moving towards the couch and remote. He knew from first-hand experience what it was like to get lost in your own head; how desperate you can get for a distraction from the thousands of thoughts and worries and scenarios that your mind creates. “I’m wide awake and craving some mindless stimulation.” He scrolled through the Netflix comedy options and choose at random. “Now, I’m going to watch _Osmosis Jones_ with or without you, so you can sit there and brood, or join me in watching Chris Rock save Bill Murray’s life. Based on a true story.”

Stiles hit play and folded his arms and legs up, trying to focus on the tv and not on the sad, silent mass by the window. If Derek wanted to be lost in his thoughts, that was fine, but Stiles wanted him to know that he didn’t need to do it by himself. No matter how exhausted Stiles was from work and attention-starved teenagers.

Ten minutes into the movie, probably around the time when Derek realized Stiles wasn’t going anywhere, out of the corner of his eye Stiles saw Derek slowly get up and walk over to the couch. Stiles tried not to move in inch when the other man sat down about a foot away from him.

He waited.

“This movie is not at all accurate.”

Stiles bit his lip to keep from smiling but he knew that was a lost cause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1264634843/playlist/1QYhpzVWZ2BQ60oOetTDGc?si=fwQquI7NT_62zp9QQX2-5A
> 
>  
> 
> Comment here or visit me at hoechlinanddylan.tumblr.com :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will try to update every week, depending on school and work.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

_How will I know; don't trust your feelings,_  
_How will I know; love can be deceiving,_

_How will I know if he really loves me?_  
_I say a prayer with every heartbeat_  
_I fall in love whenever we meet..._

 

\- Whitney Houston, "How Will I Know?"

* * *

 

“And he says to me - I shit you not, he looks me in my eyes and says this like there’s nothing wrong with the words that are coming out of his mouth - he says, _Phantom Menace is the best one out of the whole series._ Like…” Stiles waved his hands around in wordless disarray, as much as he could without launching the bagels from their paper bag. “Seriously?? PHANTOM?? One of the _prequels??_ When _Empire_ exists? Strike that. When literally _anything else_ exists? I told him that we’ll have to rethink this whole roommate situation immediately because, honestly, I can’t take that kind of chaotic energy in my own home.”

Scott chuckled, rearranging the cardboard drink holder containing their coffees in his palm, obviously not realizing the gravity of the situation. “I mean, at least Derek’s seen Star Wars, right?”

Stiles looked over at his so-called best friend with narrowed eyes, slightly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk but not caring because there were bigger things that required his attention. “Not a high bar, Scott. Though, maybe it is for you seeing as you still. Haven’t. Seen. Them.”

“Sorry, but it doesn’t really seem like something I’d be into,” Scott shrugged, smiling apologetically.

“Oh, I forgot. If it’s not _Air Bud_ or one if its eight thousand derivatives, it won’t capture your attention.”

“Hey! Those movies are really good!”

Stiles rolled his eyes, trying to resist smiling knowing that Scott was 1000% sincere. His weird fascination with golden retrievers doing human activities was beyond him. “Yeah, okay, buddy.” Stiles sighed and looked out over the warm morning streets of their neighborhood, at the people just starting their day. “I guess it is a bonus to have _someone_ in the house to talk about the movies with.”

“Exactly!”

“And he knows a lot about other franchises, too. Like, we spent an hour the other day talking about the cinematography in the Lord of the Rings films. By the way, Scott, we should plan a trip to New Zealand.”

“Sure thing.”

“And art! Strangely enough, Derek’s into art! I mean, not like actively, like he does his own or anything. At least I don’t think so. But, he listens when I rant about a piece or when I’m stuck for inspiration. He asks a lot of questions about different techniques, and styles, and color choices...He seems to be genuinely interested in my work.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh! Also, he…” Stiles trailed off when he glanced over and saw Scott staring at him, giving him one of his megawatt, Double Dimpled™ smiles. “What?”

“Nothing,” Scott shook his head, still smiling, turning back forward, a black curl bouncing against his forehead.

Stiles squinted at him. “Not ‘nothing’. That’s definitely a ‘not-nothing, totally something’ face. What is it?”

His best friend glanced back at him for a moment, smile softening but not lessening. “It’s just...you really like him, don’t you?” Immediately Stiles could feel a blush coming across face, so he couldn’t even try and pretend he didn’t know what Scott was talking about. “OH MY GOD YOU DO! YOU ‘LIKE’ LIKE HIM!” Scott shrieked, causing no less than a hundred people to turn in their direction.

“Scott, shut the fuck up, oh my god, it’s 7 in the morning!!” Stiles scolded, face heating up further. He probably looked like a plaid-clad tomato. Scott had the decency to look a little sheepish, but his eyes were still annoyingly filled with glee. “I don’t….’like’ like him, I’m not 12.”

The curly-haired boys rolled his eyes. “Okay, but you had your Danny-face on so you at the very least find him attractive.”

“I certainly did not have my Danny-face on because I don’t even know what a Danny-face is.”

Scott stopped walking and nudged him to do the same. “Sure you do! It’s the face you always get when I forget my lunch and you drop it off at the clinic for me and Danny is at the front desk and asks you about your day. It looks like this.” Scott gathered himself, then looked off into the distance, staring at nothing until his eyes got dramatically dreamy. A small smile formed slowly on his friend’s face until he bit his lip and cast his gaze to the ground, almost shyly.

Stiles scoffed. “That’s just the face you make when you think of Allison.” When Scott’s eyes flew up and widened, Stiles realized his mistake. He groaned and immediately started walking again towards their apartment.

“Okay?!” Scott questioned, stride elongating to keep up with him. “And what does it mean that the face I make when I think of my amazing girlfriend who I’m in love with is the same face you make when you talk to a guy you’ve known for four years that looks like he stepped out of a GQ magazine AND the face you make when you talk _about_ a guy you’ve known for two weeks?”

“To be fair, Derek also looks like he stepped out of a GQ magazine.”

“Stiles.”

“Okay!” Stiles exclaimed, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Fine! He’s...I like him, alright? It’s- he’s adorable and hot as hell and quiet and considerate and sarcastic and smart and likes the same things I do. But it’s just casual attraction so chill out with the creepy clown killer smile for now,” Stiles warned, chuckling softly. He had to admit it felt nice to be the one to talk to his best friend about things like this. For the last couple of years, it had always been Scott coming to Stiles about his crush on Allison and then his first date with Allison and then his first kiss with Allison and then his first time with Allison. Which Stiles was still scarred over the amount of details Scott really went into. He didn’t really need to paint _that_ much of picture, thanks, Scott.

Meanwhile, Scott was practically jumping up and down while walking (a feat that would have thrown Stiles sprawling into traffic), coffee cups rocking precariously. “Soooo, what are you gonna do?”

Stiles sputtered, “Nothing! It’s been two weeks! We don’t _really_ know him all that much. And even if it’d been longer, Derek seems like he’s been through a lot, y’know? Maybe he just needs friends and not someone drooling over him trying to get into his pants.”

“Stiles, I know you. It takes you forever to warm up to people and you have a 6th sense about who’s a decent human being and who isn’t. Remember you hated Matt from the start when I begged you to give him a chance.”

“That’s only because the day he toured the apartment he tried to explain the top tier intelligence of Rick and Morty to me in the most condescending way possible. It was doomed from the start.”

“Still. You get a vibe from people and haven’t been wrong in the fifteen years I’ve known you. You like Derek so he can’t possibly be a bad person. Furthermore, you’re not trying to get into his pants-”

“Says you…”

“-you’re trying to get to know him better. I’m not saying jump him when he’s getting out of the shower-Stiles listen to me, stop thinking about it-I’m _not_ saying jump him. I’m saying maybe...test the waters. Take him to the center or something and show him how mature and passionate you get when you’re focusing on something you love, on people you care about. Ask him about his favorite hobbies or memories or foods. Make eyes at him across the room. Sit a little too close to him, see how he reacts.”  
Stiles raised an eyebrow at his friend as they approached the gates to their apartment complex. “Stop reading Allison’s romance novels.”

“They’re so good!!” Scott insisted, eyes wide. Stiles laughed, shaking his head.

They walked up through the lobby and rode up the elevator in companionable silence. Stiles thought about what Scott had said. In his whole life, he only had one semblance of a relationship- in high school with a pretty blonde named Heather- and once that fizzled out when she went on to college, Stiles hadn’t really put himself out there since. No one had really caught his eye. Well, besides Danny. But Danny catches everyone’s eye. He’s an Eyecatcher. But, Derek...it sounded cheesy but Derek was different. On the surface, he seemed like he’d be so sure of himself, so confident and judgemental about everyone that wasn’t on his level of sophistication. But in the last two weeks Stiles had learned that Derek was actually quite unsure of himself. When they went out, the man carried himself like he didn’t want anyone to see him. He barely started a conversation, even though once he got going he could talk about anything. He was polite and thoughtful and sincere and sarcastic and...yeah, Stiles could see this going to a place the hyper-fixating part of his brain wouldn’t be able to come back from.

“Hey,” Scott whispered softly, yanking Stiles out of his thoughts. They were stopped outside of their apartment door, Scott with keys in hand. “If this is really just you finding him attractive, then I’m all for dropping it and teasing you everytime Derek walks out to the kitchen in just his sweatpants.” Stiles looked heavenward and silently asked what he did to deserve this life. “However,” Scott added pointedly. “If it isn’t, if this is maybe something more, like, maybe you want to see where this goes, I really think you should go for it. What harm could it do?”

Stiles swallowed. “We could lose a roommate.”

Scott shrugged. “We’ll get a another one. There are tons of college kids that want to live in the city but can’t afford to live by themselves. But there aren’t a ton of opportunities everyday for you to meet someone that intrigues you so much that you light up even though their favorite Star Wars movie is one of the prequels.”

Stiles bit his lip. When did the guy that thoroughly enjoyed the Emoji Movie get so insightful? “I’ll think about it,” Stiles said softly.

Scott beamed. “That’s all I ask,” he said, finally sticking the keys in the lock and swinging the door open. “Derek!! Your morning carbs and sugar have arrived!”

Stiles stepped in after him at a much more subdued pace, trying to wipe the neon sign of “Woefully smitten” from across his face and subtly thinking about his new course of action.

  
                                                                                                        ***

 

Two days later, finally deciding on how to approach the situation, Stiles found Derek sitting on the couch, idly flipping through channels on the tv.

“Sooo,” Stiles sauntered over casually, meaning not casual at all. His nerves were going haywire, even though his plans for the day weren’t too out of the box. Derek threw his head back over the couch, looking upside down at him.

“What.”

“You might wanna use some inflection there, Sourpants. I don’t know if that was a question or not.”

Derek huffed. “What do you want, _Stiles?_ ” he inquired dramatically, eyebrows lifting and arching stupidly.

“Don’t sprain yourself,” Stiles smirked. “You have the day off today, right?”

“ _Maybe?_ ”

Stiles stared at him. “Would you want to come to work with me?”

“I _do?!”_

“Okay, stop it.”

Derek laughed. “Yes, I would.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Great. Now go put on some clothes that you don’t mind getting paint all over.”

“Already done.”

Stiles looked him over. From his position behind the couch, standing over Derek, Stiles got an uninterrupted view of his tanned neck and collarbones going into a soft, black Henley, which was tucked into _extremely_ form fitting jeans. He licked his lips unconsciously and forced his gaze back to Derek’s face, which, quite frankly, wasn’t much better.

“Okay, how about wearing something the teenage girls won’t maul you over?” Stiles suggested shakily. Like a trash bag or a comforter or a stormtrooper costume.

Derek studied him for a moment, making Stiles very fidgety. “All of my clothes are like this,” he said finally.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Stiles muttered, walking back to the foyer to grab his keys and wallet. “Come along then, Pond!” he called, skipping out of the apartment, leaving Derek to lock the door and scurry after him.

 

                                                                                                             ***

 

Stiles was wrong. The teenage girls didn’t maul Derek. The supposedly professional adult workers did. Even Erica, to Stiles’ dismay.

“DEREK!” Erica screeched, after he and Stiles walked into the large front room of the creative arts department of the center. They had had to physically remove themselves from the throng of desperate counselors that wanted to show Derek the city. Stiles had gotten that covered, thanks. “I’ve missed you so much!” the blonde girl exclaimed, wrapping her arms tightly around Derek.

“Oh my god, Erica, how are you?! I’m doing great, thanks! So nice of you to ask.” Stiles gushed sarcastically.

“Shut up, Stiles. I just saw you yesterday,” Erica reminded him, finally releasing Derek from the attack and looking up at him. “I didn’t know you were coming today! I thought Stiles was keeping you all to himself. That’s why I haven’t seen you in two weeks, right? He had you tied up somewhere in that mess he calls an apartment?”

“Derek is a free man in the Stilinski-McCall residence,” Stiles interrupted. “I did not have him tied up.”

“In your dreams, though, right?” Erica winked.

Stiles coughed. “Aha! Erica, you’re such a kidder! Don’t you have a child to yell at or something?” he asked, prying her fingers off of Derek’s biceps. “Actually, where’s Boyd? Or Isaac? Anyone but you.”

Erica narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t be rude, Stiles.” She looked back up at Derek, who seemed to be thoroughly amused with the whole situation. “Derek, when is the next time you’re free?”

Derek thought about it. “I’m off Friday and Saturday, but I don’t know if Stiles’ll let me out of the handcuffs or not,” he shrugged with a smirk. Christ. Stiles’ heart couldn’t handle this.

Erica cackled. “Oh, he will; I’ll make sure of it. Let’s do something Friday, then, yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Perfect!” She clapped her hands together, and noticed a six year old having trouble with his easel off to the side of the room. “I should probably get back to work. Lots of innocent children to inspire,” she explained, walking towards the child.

“God save them,” Stiles muttered, squinting after them.

Derek cleared his throat and Stiles turned to him. “So,” he smiled, smugly. “Am I cut loose on Friday?”

Stiles blushed furiously. Was Derek flirting with him? Or simply joking? His complete lack of experience in the subject made it difficult to tell. “Shut up. Do whatever you want. See if I care.”

“You sure you don’t want me inside all day for something?” Derek prompted, smile getting wider.

“I hate both of you,” Stiles confessed, walking away from the situation and from Derek, who quickly followed him, laughing freely.

“Stiles!” a little blond haired boy of five years old exclaimed, tackling him from the side, getting red painted fingerprints all over his black skinny jeans.

“Hey, Michael!” Stiles smiled back at him, picking the boy up in his arms. “How’s my favorite little man?”

“Good!” the boy promised. “I made you a picture!”

“You did?” Michael nodded. “Can I see?”

Michael squirmed out of Stiles’ grasp. “No! You have to wait until show-and-tell like everyone else.”

Stiles pouted. “Can’t you make an exception? Just this once? For your favorite counselor?”

Michael pursed his lips. “No. Rules are rules,” he explained, putting his hands on his hips.

Stiles sighed dramatically. “Fiiinnnee. But you’re going first.”

“Deal.”

“Now run along. Paint a picture for your mom. You know how much she loves seeing your drawings hung up in her hospital room.”

“Okay! I’m gonna draw her a dragon this time!”

“Go for it, little man.”

Michael beamed and ran off back to side of the room where the primary level kids were stationed. It seemed like everything over there was in order, so he nodded to the coordinator there and sauntered over towards the intermediate level. He was greeted by a chorus of pseudo-apathetic “hey, Stiles”’s and half-hearted waves. It was fine; he was used to it. Middle-school kids kind of scared him anyways. Before he could turn away, though, a timid girl of about fourteen sketching at a table by herself caught his eye.

Stiles sat down across from her and gestured for Derek to do the same. “Hey, Bethany,” he greeted gently. The brunette looked up and smiled softly but went back to her work without a word. She was sketching an entrance to a dark forest, with thin, scraggly branches intertwining together overhead a cobblestone walkway. Bethany was one of the best artists at the center, but unfortunately for Stiles, she was still four years away from being able to join TTM.

He and Derek watched her draw for a few minutes before she signed the bottom of the sketch in stark red ink, sat back in her chair, and stared at them, waiting.

Stiles swallowed thickly. “So, your appointment was last night,” he prompted. Bethany’s eyes flicked over to Derek. “He’s cool,” Stiles assured quickly. “Won’t tell a soul.”

Bethany nodded and looked back at Stiles. “Turns out….not pregnant.”

All the air rushed out of Stiles in relief. Bethany was a good kid with a bright future, and, despite all of his training telling him to remain neutral during these kinds of situations, he was happy she didn’t have to grow up just yet. “Okay. And Charles….?”

Bethany rolled her eyes. “Deleted his number from my phone.”

“Good!” Stiles exclaimed and then backtracked. “I mean...that’s probably for the best.”

The young girl smirked and shook her head. “You’re awful at this,” she stated fondly.

“I know,” Stiles agreed, standing up. Stiles chuckled and turned to Derek, who was staring at him with a look of surprise.

“What?”

Derek blinked and shook himself. “Nothing.”

Stiles squinted at him but let it go. The two of them talked to a few more kids of various ages. Well, Stiles talked and Derek just followed him from place to place. Some kids were eager to see Stiles, others not so much. One boy in the junior level around sixteen stated that if Stiles “didn’t quit hovering over his damn shoulder, he was gonna break his hipster glasses and throw the pieces into the kiln.”  Stiles did chat with quite a few kids, though, especially the ones that he was told to look out for personally. Not all of the kids at the center were in a rough situation, like with Michael and Bethany. In fact, most of them just needed something to do after school or just enjoyed the art program. But there were a select few where art was an outlet, a relief, from the pain of the real world. These kids have a lot to deal with so much at such a young age and it’s Stiles’s job, and honor, to help them through it.

“Yo, yo Dex! How goes it?” Stiles asked, clapping a boy on the shoulder, smirking at the glare he received because of it.

“What do you want, Biles?” The boy asked, going back to his Nintendo Switch. He was a senior in high school this year, so he could only be registered at the center for another ten months. But Dexter had been there since 5th grade, so he often helped Stiles out with the other kids and programs, even though he claimed he wanted nothing to do with art.

“I heard there was a party at Jessica Montgomery’s on Saturday,” Stiles informed him, giving him his best stern “I’m-an-adult” look.

“Good for you.”

Stiles stared at him until Dexter paused his game with a grievous sigh. “Yes, I went to the party. No, I didn’t have a drink. No, I didn’t do any drugs. No, I didn’t hook up with anyone. No, I didn’t have any fun at all even though I’m young and attractive and should be enjoying my childhood. Is that good enough for you, _Mr. Stilinski?”_

Stiles thought about it. “That depends. Did you go to your A.A. meeting on Monday?”

Dexter rolled his eyes. “Yes. You can even call the coordinator.”

Stiles beamed. “Then that’s good enough for me. I’m proud of you, kid.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled dismissively, but Stiles knew that he was proud of himself, too.

Stiles guided Derek to his small office off of the main art room and closed the door behind him. He kicked off his shoes and then face-planted into his couch that he got at a garage sale. They’d been out there for two hours. He loved those kids to death but they could be exhausting. He just needed, like, a ten minute nap then he would do some paperwork and work out some of the details for the fundraiser at the end of the month. After about thirty seconds, though, he bolted up, remembering Derek.

“Oh, dude, you don’t have to stand there,” he stated, staring at his roommate stationed by the door, arms folded and staring at him indecipherably. “Have a seat. Relax or something.”

Derek glanced at the chair behind Stiles’ desk but then ignored it, sweeping his eyes over the lopsided art posted on the walls and clutter of papers all over the floor. He glanced back up at Stiles, eyes wide.

“Seven,” Stiles said, sitting up properly on the couch.

“What?”

“That’s the seventh time you gave me that look since we got to the center. Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like...I’m some physics problem on a test that your teacher never went over,” Stiles scoffed. “And if you say it’s nothing, so help me God…”

“You’re different.”

Stiles paused. “Come again?”

“It’s just….you were like a different person with the kids out there than anywhere else.”  
“How do you mean?”

Derek shrugged. “I don’t...it’s like, when you’re at home or with your friends or when you think no one’s watching, you’re all over the place. Like your limbs are trying to go in four different directions and your mind in a fifth.” He laughed at Stiles’ indignant look. “And I mean that in the nicest way possible. When you have a responsibility, you take charge and do what needs to be done and look after the people that need you. Or when you’re working on a piece, you’re so focused and calm and collected and...peaceful, it seems. But you also have this disorderly and playful side of you that would make a control freak run in the other direction. I mean, I’m 95% sure that you have more papers on your floor right now than on your desk.”

Stiles blushed. “I fully intended to straighten all this up this weekend.”

“Yeah, right.” Stiles, like the child he is, stuck his tongue out at him, making Derek roll his eyes. “My point is you’ve got balance down to a T. Work and play. Fun and business. Order and chaos.” He dropped his gaze. “Responsibility and recklessness,” he added softly. “I just wish I had that. That skill of balance.”

Stiles, for once in his life, was at a loss for words. For one thing, that was the most he’s heard Derek say at one time in the two weeks he’s known him. Like, that was the Gettysburg Address for him. He thought about telling Derek that but he looked so vulnerable that he decided against it.

“Well, first off, thanks dude. I mean, really. No one’s ever called me responsible before, in any sense,” he smirked. “But, you know, I didn’t always have that balance. I was an extremely reckless and wild kid. I got in trouble a lot and, because of my ADD, I had a hard time paying attention in class, so I never did any work. But then after...after a while, I learned that I needed to grow up.” Stiles shrugged and stood up, stooping down to pick up some of the papers off the floor, trying not to think about the event that caused him to finally clean up his act. “I needed to help my dad around the house, you know. With like chores and eating right and doing what needed to be done. I learned to cope with my ADD better, with the help of a counselor and an after-school art program. Which is the main reason I’m doing this. I guess I just learned that there’s a time and place for everything.”

When he had collected the pile and placed it on his desk, he looked up at Derek and smiled softly. “I’m never going to stop being me, which is crazy, obnoxious, out-of-control Stiles but...when it counts, I’ve learned to step up and do my job. It wasn’t easy and I’m still learning, but with help, and especially when you’re doing something you love, it can happen.”

Derek was silent for a long while, alternating from staring at the now clean floor to Stiles. After a time, Stiles’ patience ran out. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Derek swallowed and shrugged. “I...I recently had a choice between responsibility and carelessness and...I chose wrong. It ended badly, to say the least. You say it wasn’t, but, you make it sound so easy, to just choose to be an adult about things instead of...running away from your problems.”

Stiles took a step toward him. “Sounds to me like you need motivation.”

Derek looked up at him from under his eyelashes. “Yeah, I think so.”

Another step. “I could help you, if you want. To find that balance. Maybe help you find an outlet where you can have fun and lose control in a contained way. Like art was for me.”

Derek smiled, a shred of what looked like hope shining through his eyes. “I’d like that.”

Stiles grinned. Finally! He was getting through to this guy. He didn’t know what kind of baggage Derek was carrying but whatever it was was weighing him down horribly. He knew it probably had something to do with his family, because he was always reluctant to talk about them, and now he knew that there was an added layer of “major guilt complex” underneath the greek god exterior. But, Stiles meant it when he said that he wanted to help, to give Derek an outlet to express his feelings. There was a sports program at the center that maybe he could help with. Maybe coach a basketball team or physical training. Or maybe take up boxing at the ring. Or help construct the new wing for young adults across the street. Or maybe even…

“I know Kate and I used to do MMA in New York,” Derek was saying. “I don’t really know if that helped, though. I usually left more riled up than when I entered, but she insisted on it, so…” He shrugged.   
Stiles smirked. That might’ve been a potential contributor to the problem but he put it aside to think on later. “Who’s Kate? Your sister?”

Derek hesitated. “No. My, uh, girlfriend.”

Stiles’ heart skipped, like, five beats in his chest and everything he was going to say flew out of his head.

Girlfriend?

_Girlfriend?!_

Derek. Had a girlfriend. Stiles mentally kicked himself. Of course he did. Look at him. He looked like he belonged in a French renaissance museum. Of course he was taken. Of course Stiles had no chance with him. He should’ve let his delusions die the first moment he saw him. But now he had this stupid crush and this stupid residence contract and this stupid plan to help him. Well, that wasn’t stupid. He didn’t feel bad about that. But generally the world was stupid and he wanted to cry over how stupid it was.

“Oh...cool,” Stiles finally choked out, his voice too high and his smile too strained.

“Stiles--” Derek started, taking a step toward him. Oh no. None of that.

“You know, I actually better check back on the coordinators. See if any of them needs a break,” he explained, gathering his wits slowly but surely.

“Are you sure--” Derek persisted, concern and what looked like sadness coming across his features. God, not pity. Please, don’t be pity.

“Yeah, totally,” he shrugged nonchalantly, tripping over himself as he tried to get out of the door. “You just stay here and chill and I’ll be back and we’ll talk about some different options for you.” _And nothing else,_ he tried to convey with his eyes.

Derek stared at him for a long moment and Stiles struggled to maintain steady eye contact. He smiled brightly, giving a thumbs up. _Look everything’s fine, Derek. Look how completely fine I am._ Derek eventually sighed and nodded. “Okay. Sounds good,” he said softly.

Stiles nodded once and hurried once, vowing to pretend this never happened and pushing his feelings for his roommate so far into the back of his mind that they might as well have been stored in Narnia. He took a deep breath. He was fine. Everything was fine. Derek and he were just friends because Derek had a girlfriend and that was fine.

And if he drank half a bottle of wine and ate four bowls of Coco Puffs that night while listening to Barry Manilow on low in his room, well, that was fine, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1264634843/playlist/1QYhpzVWZ2BQ60oOetTDGc?si=m1dSDBr8Q6qk1sMVuYoOTw
> 
> Feel free to comment here or visit me at hoechlinanddylan.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

_How much longer will it take to cure this?_  
_Just to cure it cause I can't ignore it if it's love..._  
_Makes me want to turn around and face me but I don't know nothing 'bout love..._

\- Counting Crows, "Accidentally in Love"

 

* * *

 

Derek woke up from a dreamless sleep- the best he could hope for nowadays- to birds chirping and muffled glasses clinking in the kitchen. His bed was warm, the comforters smelling like the fabric softener he used when he did laundry last night, and his stomach was growling from the smell of bacon wafting in his cracked bedroom door. The last month of Derek’s life had been hell; some nights his misery and guilt almost suffocated him in his sleep, and so he ended up doing crunches until tears leaked out of his eyes from how much his abdominals and lungs were screaming in agony. But, it was moments like this, little pockets of contentment, that softened the knife, that let his anxiety and shame take a backseat for just a short while, and made it easier to breathe. Albeit -even though he would only admit it to himself in moments of complete solitude- those little pockets of ease, of _normalcy,_ predominantly happened when he was around-

“Knock, knock, big guy!”

_Stiles._

“I’m sleeping,” he groaned into his comforters, traitorous heartbeat already picking up at the sound of the boy’s cheery voice.

“‘Kay, well if you want to sleepwalk into the kitchen at any point, Scott and I made breakfast.”

“Scott can’t cook.”

“ _I_ made breakfast and Scott ran to the store because we had run out of juice.”

Derek snorted, reluctantly smiling with his still closed. “Be there in a second.”

“I’ll be counting the moments,” Stiles sighed dramatically, and Derek heard him walk away from his door and back down the hall.

Derek flipped over on his back and stared at the ceiling, a slight fluttering building in his stomach. It wasn’t the stirrings of the first signs of a panic attack, which he knew all too well at this point. It was the kind of feeling that, before two weeks ago, he had only experienced a handful of times, all during the first few weeks of knowing his past serious relationship partners. In those first few weeks of the “honeymoon phase”, right before every date, he would feel a fluttering in his stomach, knowing that he would be able to see them soon and have all of their attention on him. He had first asked Laura about it when he was fifteen, after his first crush and subsequent high school girlfriend yelled at him and his basketball teammates using colorful, intellectually impressive language for disrupting her clarinet practice. Laura had smiled and said it meant he was a “smitten kitten” and when Cora overheard, she’d called him nothing else for three weeks, even though at age seven, she hadn’t really known what it meant.

But now he was feeling that fluttering again and he was self-aware and adult enough to accept it for what it was.

He was into Stiles.

And not “into” like he was _into_ the Pack or _into_ taking an exercise break by the willow trees in the public garden or _into_ the sesame seed bagels with strawberry cream cheese from the cafe down the street. No, he was into Stiles the way he was into Paige; the way he was into Jennifer in college after he saw how much care she put into her patio garden, how gentle and attentive she was with each leaf to make the flowers and herbs grow despite the lack of space and New York City air pollution. He was into Stiles the way...

No, Derek corrected immediately, stopping that comparison in its tracks. He _wasn’t_ into Stiles the way he was into Kate. With Kate, the feeling was slightly different. Derek thought she was incredible. He had grown up valuing strong, independent women just by being born into the Hale family and so he didn’t stand a chance against Kate’s magnetic aura. She was full of confidence, ambition, experience, sexiness, and often Derek felt lucky just to be allowed to talk to her, let alone date her. He had felt his familiar “butterflies” for about two weeks but then it transformed into something a little less light and much more like...bees? Yeah, bees. Like a hoard of buzzing, irritated bees zipping around in his stomach, giving him a constant state of apprehensiveness. He loved her, don’t make any mistake, but he found himself more focused on being late or answering her texts- or trying to make up for some stupid mistake he had made the last time that had made her irritated- than he was daydreaming about her smile or laugh like he had done in the past. Even after two years, during times when Derek really messed up (like the time he was tied up with a new contract at work and hadn’t called or texted her for _at least_ 12 hours), he still felt slightly sick right before he met up with Kate, knowing that he was going to get yelled at or have to make it up to her in some way.

This time was not like that. Derek didn’t feel apprehensive or worried, like he was walking on eggshells, with Stiles. He felt….present. In the moment. When talking to or hanging out with Stiles, or texting any of the Pack, Derek’s past didn’t hurt as much and the future didn’t seem so hopeless. On a few memorable occasions, such as the time Stiles forced Derek to watch five straight hours of _The Twilight Zone_ with him when they were both off work, Derek had had the sudden feeling to call home and make things right. Stiles had been explaining the political relevance of one of the episodes to today’s climate and had reminded Derek so much of Cora that Derek’s heart ached and fingers twitched towards his phone. Ultimately the urge was trampled by his cowardice and shame, but that was the first time he had been close to facing his demons head on. But for the most part, being around Stiles and his little friend group gave Derek a sense of normalcy that it almost seemed real. Almost.

He felt amazed. Amazed at Stiles’ quirkiness and ability to have a dissertation defense style rant about any topic you threw at him, amazed at his loyalty to his friends and to his work and kids and to his passions. Amazed at how considerate, patient, and helpful he’s been with Derek’s attacks and nightmares and moody silences and Bad Days and Terrible Days.

He also felt confused. Not confused because Stiles was a guy- he’s been comfortable with his bisexuality since college- or because he was confused about whether or not Stiles returned his feelings (the man was about as subtle as the Las Vegas neon sign). No, he was confused because this was the first time in his twenty-six years of life that he had feelings for two people. And it made an already complicated situation 100x more complex.

“Hey, Derek? Sorry, if you’re still asleep- Stiles said you weren’t.”

“Stiles’ a liar,” Derek responded gruffly, wrenching himself from his brooding musings. He finally sat up in bed, and rubbed a hand down his face.

“He really is. Anyway, Erica texted? She said you weren’t answering your phone. She wants to know if you want to have lunch with her today.”

Derek got up, snatched his phone from his dresser, and walked to his bedroom door, swinging it open. He smiled at his curly-haired, dimply roommate, already dressed in his scrubs for his shift at the vet’s. “Sounds great. I’ll text her back.” Derek’s smile turned into a smirk. “I heard you made breakfast.”

Scott winced. “Uhh, yeah no. Not after last week. That reminds me: I still owe you a t-shirt.”

Derek laughed and shook his head, stepping into the hallway. “I still don’t know how you managed to stain, burn, and drench the shirt off my back from three feet away,” he mused as they walked into the sunlit living room.

“Scott’s culinary incompetence knows no bounds!” Stiles called from the kitchen.

“I resemble that remark!” Scott yelled back, grabbing his messenger bag from the couch.

“‘I always said your face scares people! Why don’tcha just throw it away?!’” Stiles yelled in a fake, heavy Manhattan accent.

Scott burst into giggles, and made his way to the front door. “Bye, guys!”

“BYYY-EEE!” came from the kitchen and Derek saluted as Scott left for work.

Derek could hear Stiles still snickering before he rounded the corner. He was wearing a Kiss the Cook apron as he flipped pancakes on a skillet, bacon sizzling on a countertop grill beside him. Stiles looked up from his work, broad smile taking up his entire face; large mischievous, brown eyes sparkling.

 _Flutter, flutter_.

“What, sourwolf? You’ve never seen the _Three Stooges_?”

Derek leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms against his bare chest, taking no small amount of pride when Stiles’ eyes flicked down and back up again, visibly making an effort to keep eye contact with him. “Haven’t had the pleasure,” Derek stated, as deadpan as he could make it.

Stiles scoffed, and brushed a hand through his hair. “Well, then, add that to the list of shows we need to binge.”

“Is that before or after _American Horror Story_?”

Stiles paused, legitimately considering the question. “Before, but after _Brooklyn 99_ ,” he decided, resuming his plating. “Pancakes and bacon?”

“Yes, thank you,” Derek said, moving to help take the bacon off the grill and separate the pieces onto three different plates. “Are you working today?”

“Yep, I’m going in in about an hour.”

“Great. House to myself,” Derek joked.

Stiles rolled his eyes, turning off the burner and grill, and turning to grab the syrup from the cabinet. “Please. All you have planned is eight million push ups and six hours of staring out the window broodingly.”

“See? My schedule is booked.” Stiles shook his head as he took the plates to the small dining table on the other side of the kitchen and Derek grabbed the juice and utensils. “You need butter for your pancakes?”

“Uh-duh.”

Derek tsk-ed but grabbed it anyway. “See, if you made buttermilk pancakes and then incorporated butter into the batter in tiny cubes, you wouldn’t need to slop it on top like some sort of savage.”

Stiles took his apron off and draped it over the back of his chair before he sat down. He was wearing a blue plaid button up over a white t-shirt that was too fitted for Derek’s concentrating abilities and coal black skinny jeans. The ever-present black beanie and black rimmed hipster reading glasses combo that Derek absolutely did _not_ dream about were missing in action, thank God. “Well, maybe next time _you_ make _me_ breakfast.”

“Sure,” Derek shrugged easily, sitting down and placing his items on the table. “I’ll make crepes, beignets, or strawberry tarts or something to add a little bit of culture to this apartment.”

“Hey! We’re cultured,” Stiles protested indignantly.

Derek lifted an eyebrow. “You and Scott once had a competition to see how many grapes you both could fit in your mouth, followed by lunch which consisted of grilled cheeses made from Kraft string cheese and Wonder bread washed down with Capri Suns, followed by a _Fast and the Furious_ / _Transformers_ double feature.”

“All of that is prime American culture.”

Derek snorted. “Right.”

“But you know how to make that stuff? Crepes in a raspberry reduction, all that jazz?”

“I don’t know anything about a reduction, but crepes, yes. And a lot of other things. I used to cook all the time because...I was fortunate enough to have great teachers and I found it weirdly calming after a long day of work. So, yes I would love to make breakfast some time. Maybe dinner, too, because I’m sure you guys haven’t had slow roasted lamb shoulder before.”

“Sounds great. It’s a date, then.”

Derek flicked his eyes up from where he was slicing his pancakes to see Stiles’ eyes close and a pretty, red flush spreading across his cheekbones. “Ah, I..that’s not-”

Derek took pity on him. “I know what you meant, Stiles,” he said kindly. He paused. “I’m sure Scott would want to third-wheel anyway if it meant free food.”

Stiles’ eyes opened quickly, and Derek winked at him and went back to his food as calmly as he could. He wanted to show Stiles that their...conversation on Wednesday, no matter how awkward and confusing it made things, was not relationship-ruining. Derek still believed that they could move past it, and even joke about it to ease the way. They were both adults; they could handle a few teases, couldn’t they?

Eventually, in Derek’s peripherals, he saw Stiles pick up his utensils and stuff a big piece of pancake his mouth, chewing slowly. “Just so you know,” he said after a moment, sort of hesitantly. “If it turns out you’re like the world’s greatest chef, I might have to use those handcuffs Erica was talking about.”

Derek’s laughter burst out of him, narrowly avoiding spraying the orange juice he just took a sip of over the table. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, chuckling. When he looked over at his roommate, Stiles was smiling down at his plate, in what looked like heavy relief. “Speaking of Erica, I was supposed to text her back,” he remembered, pulling his phone from his sweatpants pocket. Sure enough, he had one missed call and three text messages.

 **11:03pm:** **_> _ ** _I’m dragging you to lunch tomorrow, don’t forget._

 **12:15am: > ** _Are you asleep? I guess looking pretty takes a lot of energy, doesn’t it?_

 **7:34am: > ** _I know you’re awake. Stiles said you get up at dawn every day to torture your muscles. How *does* he know that, Derek? Are you moved into his room already? My bet was by Christmas, but maybe Stiles works fast…. >:) See ya at 1pm! _

Derek shook his head at the last text, fingers working.

 **9:14am: < ** _Sorry, my phone is practically always on silent. Surprisingly I slept in late today. Or, late for me anyways. And in my own bed, thank you. I did not forget about lunch. I’ll be ready for you at 1pm. Anywhere you want to meet?_

Derek looked up. “You wanna join me and Erica for lunch?”

Stiles grimaced lightly, “Wish I could but I’m doing a lunch meeting with a few of the directors to go over the details for the Halloween fundraiser. Raincheck?”

“Definitely,” Derek promised, popping a piece of bacon in his mouth as his phone lit up.

 **9:15am: > ** _Morell’s Diner? It’s in Beacon Hill._

 **9:15am: < ** _See you there._

Derek slipped his phone back in his pocket and picked his utensils back up. “Sorry, that was rude.”

Stiles waved his free hand wildly. “Not at all! It’s actually...kind of nice that you get along with the Pack. Matt couldn’t stand them and the feeling was definitely mutual.”

“I have a feeling Matt and I have few things in common.”

Stiles lifted his eyebrows. “That’s for sure. For one thing, he wore shirts to breakfast.”

“I was worried Scott would burn it off again.”

“A valid concern. And another thing is that...when he found out I was bi, he started making weird comments,” Stiles shuddered, pushing around the last remaining pieces of his pancakes on his plate.

Derek froze and narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”

Stiles shrugged, “Like, I dunno, like he kept asking if I had multiple flings a night. Which isn’t a problem, ya know?” Stiles pointed with his fork, eyes serious. “A person’s sexual activity is their business and they should be able to do whatever they want without being judged. And also polyamory is a thing and multiple people can have a loving and fulfilling relationship and shouldn’t be limited by society’s narrow view of love and expected monogamy.”

“Of course.”

“And it was the _way_ he said it,” Stiles insisted. “Like, ‘Hey, Bilinski, you feel like banging a boy or girl tonight?’ ‘Hey, there, tiger. What’d you get up to last night? Break up any relationships?’ ‘Hey quick q: what’s a threesome like?’ Like, newsflash, buddy! You’re having more sex than I am! So, take your not-so-subtle biphobia, wrap it in your home-grown ignorance and slut-shaming, and shove it up your ass, pal!” he exclaimed, huffing loudly and sitting back in his seat.

Derek blinked, mind warring between wholehearted agreement, burning animosity toward his predecessor, and blinding infatuation for the man in front of him. Stiles’ large, brown eyes were ignited with unresolved anger and indignation, his slightly upturned nose and impossible cheekbones tinged red, his front teeth lightly biting down on his plump, rosy bottom lip to keep a second rant from bursting past it. He reached up and pushed back his dark tresses, his large, thin hands trembling slightly from his outburst. He was so unfairly beautiful. And Derek wanted nothing more in that moment than to lean over the table, syrup and pancakes be damned, and kiss him with the same passion he had just shown. But that was one of the worst ideas to ever pass through Derek’s head, and contrary to popular belief, Derek didn’t _always_ make bad decisions. He swallowed down the impulse and sat back in his chair.

“If he was still around, I’d break his nose,” he said calmly. “Probably repeatedly. In the same spot, so it’d never heal right. And so he’d constantly have to explain to people how he broke his nose so badly and every time he’d be reminded of the time his gross creepiness and prejudice had direct consequences.”

Stiles laughed. “God, I wish you got here a few months earlier because I would give all of my organs to see that.”

“Dramatic.”

“Thank you.” He paused. “I had a point but I lost it.”

Derek shook his head, trying not to laugh. “You’re glad me and the Breakfast Club are getting along.”

“Who am I in that scenario?”

Derek thought about as he took another sip of juice. “Claire.”

“Good, that’s the correct answer.”

Derek laughed, “So, your point was…”

“My _point_ is: I’m glad you’re making friends, specifically with my friends, because I know you were new around here and didn’t really have any before. And..” Stiles stopped and bit his lip, toying with his napkin.

“What?” Derek asked softly.

Stiles glanced up, amber eyes searching his for a moment, then he nodded once as if making a decision. “And I’m glad because making friends means making bonds and making bonds means you might stay longer. In Boston. Ya know, cuz it...it seems like you’re running from something,” he explained gently. Derek clenched his jaw and sat back, heart-rate starting to pick up. “Not that you have to talk about that! But it just seems like it. And maybe if you’re making a bit of a life here, it’s less like you’re running and more like you’re...moving on? Like, from the thing you’re running from?” He huffed and ran a hand over your face. “That didn’t make sense, did it? And was extremely inappropriate, sorry.”

Derek was shaking his head before he even realized he disagreed. “No, it’s...it’s fine, Stiles. I know what you meant. And,” he cleared his throat. “I agree. I didn’t come here to make any connections but it seems like that’s what’s happening and..it’s good. I’m good. And I like your friends so it’s easy to make connections with them.” He smiled shakily at his roommate.

Stiles’ answering smile was brilliant. “Good, I’m glad, Derek,” he said genuinely. Then his smile turned into a smirk and his eyes narrowed. He pointed his fork at Derek. “Just don’t talk about me with Erica today and we’ll be good.”

“Why? What would she tell me?”

Stiles opened his mouth and then closed it, slight blush appearing again. “Nah, nothing.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, now thoroughly invested. “Uh-huh.”

Stiles blush got deeper, traveling across his face, down his exposed neck, and disappearing underneath his white t-shirt. Damn, he sure did blush easily, didn’t he? How far did it...Derek snatched his eyes back up as Stiles stood up. “Wow, as great as the thought of my impending humiliation has been, I really need to get going.”

Derek stood up as well and stretched before starting to clear the table of their dishes. Stiles glanced at his chest and then openly glared at him. Derek couldn’t help the obnoxious laugh that bubbled out of him. He knew he was being a dick but it was kind of nice getting back that slight arrogance and self-assuredness he had before the fire happened. The sense that all he had to do was smile a certain way or wear a certain kind of outfit and he’d have almost anyone’s attention. It gave him a sense of normalcy and familiarity that he craved with his whole being. It also didn’t hurt to prove over and over again that the cute boy he lived with was attracted to him. He never claimed to be a saint. Sue him.

“Have fun impacting the minds of the future,” he said, taking the dishes to the sink and putting things back in cabinets.

Stiles huffed. “The impact will mostly come from the primary group throwing paint at each other but thanks. I’ll do my best.” They walked into the living room together after everything was clear. Stiles grabbed his keys and wallet from the stand near the front door and pulled his beanie from his back pocket and pulled it on his head, a couple strands of dark hair peeking out at the front. _Damn it._ “Tell Erica I said hey.” Derek nodded, distracted as Stiles grabbed his glasses from his front pocket (how did they not break?) and shoved them on his face. _Double damn it._ He gave him a salute as he opened the front door. “Later, Der-bear.” He smiled and bit his lip, _another_ slight blush spreading across his nose, and left the apartment.

_Flutter, flutter._

Derek closed his eyes. “Fuck,” he whispered into the empty loft. “I’m so screwed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1264634843/playlist/1QYhpzVWZ2BQ60oOetTDGc?si=fwQquI7NT_62zp9QQX2-5A
> 
>  
> 
> Comment here or visit me at hoechlinanddylan.tumblr.com :)


	10. Chapter 10

_Who d'you think you're kidding_   
_He's the earth and heaven to you_   
_Try to keep it hidden,_   
_Honey we can see right through you..._

\- Susan Egan, "I Won't Say I'm In Love"

* * *

 

Derek walked into Morell’s Diner, a clean but no frills, small establishment, at 12:59 pm. It was already pretty full, so after doing a quick scan and not seeing Erica, he got seated to secure a space. He didn’t have to wait long, as he had just received his water and silverware when he heard his name being called in a shrill voice.

“Derek! Long time no see, hun!”

Derek looked up and smiled at the bubbly blonde as she slid into the booth opposite him. “You just saw me two days ago,” he pointed out. His eyes continued past where she was standing and caught the boy hesitantly sliding in next to her.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Erica stated, like she didn’t care whether he did or not. “But I brought a stray.”

Derek shook his head, smile widening. “Not at all. Hey, Isaac. How’ve you been?”

Isaac shrugged nonchalantly but the release of tension in his shoulders and soft smile showed his relief. “Hi, Derek. Pretty good. You?”

“Can’t complain, I guess. I’m really glad you’re here.” The boy bowed his head, fiddling with his napkin, ears reddening, and Derek decided to cut him a break. “Stiles said you’re helping out with the fundraiser? Practically running the thing yourself?”

Isaac rolled his eyes while Erica snorted. “I’m helping getting the vendors organized, that’s it. Stiles’ exaggeration knows no bounds.”

“ _Speaking_ of Stiles…” Erica interjected forcefully, a cat-like grin on her face.

Derek glanced at her with slightly amused exasperation. “Subtle.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Do I need to be?”

Derek opened his mouth to reply, but was luckily saved by the waiter coming to take their order. Derek went with water and a reuben, Eric opted for the cowboy burger with a sweet tea, and Isaac originally ordered a side caesar salad, until Erica nudged him and whispered quickly in his ear, at which he changed his order to the chicken caesar wrap with a small chocolate shake. In the back of his mind, there was the small voice telling Derek to stop getting too attached to people he eventually would be severing ties with. But, even from Derek’s short interactions with the kid at the showcase two weeks ago and the last five minutes, he felt the urge to wrap Isaac up in a warm blanket and protect him forever.

Derek kept pestering Erica about the upcoming fundraiser and what needed to be done, well after the arrival of the food, very obviously keeping her off track, which she noticed and humored. He also asked Isaac about his classes and passions, getting out of him that he was on the swim team and decidedly “not hating it”.

“And what about your art?” Derek asked, biting into another sweet potato fry.

Isaac bunched his eyebrows together. “My art?”

Derek nodded. “Yeah. Like, any new inspirations lately? Or...hardships? I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I know shit about art but fingerpainting landscapes seems crazy difficult. Like...not only do you have to find something new to paint but, it’s gotta look good all...wavy, right?” Erica cackled. “Very technical verbiage here, I know.”

Isaac blinked for a moment and then cleared his throat a little, taking a sip of his milkshake. “I, uh, yeah, it’s going well.” He tilted his head to one side. “I usually photograph throughout the day when I’m walking around, a lot more if I’m in an area I’m rarely in. It’s,” he bit his lip and then sat forward suddenly, arms on the table. “I actually had a swim meet in Central Mass the other day and afterwards the whole team went hiking. Ya know, just some wandering around the woods. And we climbed up this hill and we turned and you could see trees for miles. Just in all directions, fully grown and leaved trees. Mostly green but a few were starting to turn. The barest yellow here, a spot of red there. And the sky- it was so blue...not a cloud, but just different shades of blue, overlapping each other until they got to the tree line. Which of course wasn’t a flat, perfect line, ‘cuz of the topography?” He sat back, shaking his head. “I must’ve taken over a hundred photos that afternoon. And, I stayed up all night painting, and mixing colors to paint again. Think I got through six canvases before Denise threatened to take away my acrylics if I didn’t turn out the light,” he chuckled.

“Denise?” Derek stuttered out, amazed at the boys enthusiasm.

“My foster mom,” Isaac explained. He finally looked up at Derek’s wide-eyed gaze. He glanced at Erica, who was visibly proud-momming all over the booth. His ears turned scarlet. “I, uh, sorry. That was a lot. N-no one outside of TTM really asks about my art.”

Derek cleared his throat, trying to regain a neutral expression. He was so floored by the passion of this boy who did everything he could to hide himself, physically and emotionally, from the world, but who was brave enough to showcase his talent and love in front of a hundred people, and describe a moment of inspiration to an almost-complete stranger. “What about your friends?” he finally asked.

Isaac shrugged. “Don’t really have any. Moved around too much. I’ve got some classmates I study with. Some swimmates I get food with, maybe catch a movie. But nothing substantial.” He paused. “It’s no big deal. I prefer my space, anyway.”

Erica wrapped both arms around the curly-haired blonde and squeezed. “Well, tough ‘cuz your Packmates are aaaalll up in it.”

Isaac smiled toothily and rolled his eyes. “I’m not in the Pack”

Erica kissed him sloppily on his cheek. “Eh, what’s three months?” she countered, releasing him and returning to the last of her burger.

Isaac scoffed. “‘Almost eighteen is not eighteen’, Stiles says.”

“So you can’t tag. You’re still Pack. Stiles can shove it,”Erica proclaimed. Derek snorted, making Erica shoot her eyes over to him. “Although, I’m sure he would like to, right, Derek?” she smirked.

Derek lifted an eyebrow. “Surely not your best work.”

“Not really, but I needed a segue or we’d never get around to it. And don’t call me Shirley.”

Isaac frowned. “Wait...around to what?”

Derek opened his mouth but Erica beat him to it. “Stiles has heart-eyes for Derek. Big ones.”

“Thanks, Erica,” Derek sighed, pushing his finished plate away, resigning himself to this conversation.

“So, you _do_ know!” Erica pointed, gleefully.

Derek looked heavenward, cracking a smile against his will. “Yes, I know.”

Isaac looked back and forth between them, mind visibly whirring. “Stiles has a crush on you?!” he asked, finally settling on Derek.

Erica, for once, said nothing, lifting an eyebrow and her drink, settling back and letting Derek handle it. He sighed again, noting that he’d probably be doing a lot of that. “He...just finds me attractive.”

“Duh, he has eyes!” Erica burst out. “Albeit his vision is a little lacking but not enough to oversee that jawline.” Derek rolled his eyes as Isaac cackled. “But, no, he doesn’t _just_ find you attractive. I know way too much about your obsession with game shows for it to _just_ be attraction.”

“I...they’re good for background noise when I’m working.”

“Yeah, well, he goes on about you,” Erica pointed out. “Derek, it’s been two weeks since he met you and every time he comes into work I learn a new favorite movie, a new favorite song, a new _hated_ song, what park you used to play in as a kid, which ‘- oh my god, Erica!- is the same park _I_ used to play in! How weird is that?! We’ve probably crossed paths before and didn’t even realize!’” she recited in a high-pitched/supposed rendition of Stiles’ voice.

Derek was slightly speechless and tried to hide it behind a drink of water. Like he had noticed earlier, Stiles wasn’t subtle about his attraction to Derek, with the extended looks and quick glances away if he was caught, the slight flushes, bitten lips, stuttering of words if Derek came too close, smiled a certain way. Maybe...Derek played into it. A little. Was that wrong? Was he toying with someone’s emotions? Especially now that it seemed that Stiles’ feelings went a little deeper than simple lust. Perhaps he should’ve caught that, with the way the younger man reacted to his news that Derek was taken. He had looked...not quite heartbroken, but an echo of it. A fracture of disappointment, shattered hope reflected in the chestnut eyes that had been previously bright with ideas of helping Derek through his various “issues”. Derek had seen and felt Stiles’ crushed levity, and it had pained him more than he would’ve thought it would. He immediately wanted to take back the words, and he didn’t really know why, as it was better Stiles knew sooner rather than later.

“Look, Derek,” Erica said gently, after Derek sat in silence for a moment. “Normally I would keep this kind of thing to myself and just let Stiles moon over you and tease him when it was just the two of us or something. Except...this doesn’t seem like a school boy crush. I’ve known Stiles for three-years now, and Scott has known him for five times that. We had a conversation yesterday about this and, as far as he knows, Stiles has not once been like this with anyone. We’ve been worried about him. That he spends too much time working and not really experiencing life for himself. And maybe, I’m overstepping as a friend but I wanna make sure he takes a chance on this.” She paused, and sat back and glanced at the teenager next to her. “Isaac, what did you think of Derek after the showcase?”

Isaac sized Derek up and shrugged. “Not the worst.” Erica gave him a look and he sighed. “I thought you were a pretty cool guy. That you could be cool to hang out with.”

Erica pointed at Isaac as if that proved her point. “You see, Isaac doesn’t trust anyone. Especially guys. And he already told you he likes to keep to himself. And yet he thinks you’re ‘a pretty cool guy that would be cool to hang out with’. Which is Isaac speak for ‘I am now imprinted on you and will follow you around forever’.”

Isaac scoffed, ducking his head in embarrassment. Derek chuckled softly, a little overwhelmed. “For the record, this whole time I’ve been thinking of ways to secretly adopt you without any money or place of my own or parental experience whatsoever.”

Isaac laughed, surprised but delighted. “I think I’d be good with pizza and movies every once in a while.”

“Done.”

Erica smiled widely but then got back on track. She reminded Derek scarily of Lydia. “Derek. Me, Isaac, Scott, Boyd, Stiles...we don’t trust easily. And yet we all trusted you the first time we met you. I don’t know if that’s fate or foolishness but we do. And we, at least me and Scott, think you’d be perfect for Stiles.”

“I do, too,” Isaac added quietly.

“Isaac does, too. I want to ask you bluntly. Which is invasive and badgery of me and none of my business but I’m gonna ask you anyway. Do you have feelings for Stiles?”

Derek paused and swallowed. “I, um, I actually have...a girlfriend. Back in New York.”

“Oh,” Erica said, simply, surprise evident. She shrugged and sat back. “Well, I guess that settles that, then.” Derek didn’t say anything, mind reeling, and an unsettled feeling rising in his stomach that he knew had nothing to do with the food. He must’ve not have done a good job of hiding his uncertainty. Erica eyed him shrewdly and narrowed her eyes. “Unless it doesn’t,” she amended slowly. Derek didn’t comment. “I’m noticing now that you didn’t technically answer the question.”

Derek avoided her gaze and began ripping his napkin to shreds. When the silence got too much, he replied, “No, I guess I didn’t.”

“O-kaay. So let me ask it again: Do you. Have feelings. For Stiles.”

Derek felt trapped and he couldn’t really pinpoint why. “What do you want me to say here?” he asked, exasperatedly.

“I just want the truth.”

“Well, maybe you’re not entitled to it.”

“I’m _definitely_ not entitled to it.”

“It’d be nice to get it, anyway,” Isaac pointed out, barely audible, shoulders hunched.

Derek cringed, rubbing his palms over his eyes. He breathed out and looked at Stiles’ friends. “Yes, I have feelings for Stiles.”

“You’re attracted to him,” Erica stated, blandly.

Derek winced. “I’m...into him. More than attraction.”

Isaac grinned and Erica fist-pumped. “YES!” she whooped, causing the surrounding diners to swivel their heads. Derek’s ears burned. “Okay,” she said, still smiling, smacking her hands on the table. “Let’s figure this out.”

“What’s there to figure out?” Derek asked tiredly.

“Well, you have a girlfriend in another state but you and your roommate have the hots for each other. You don’t think that’s something to figure out?”

Well, when she put it that way…

Suddenly, their waiter appeared, slightly worn out but ready to please. “Are we all done here? Are you guys ready for the check?”

“Yeah, you can take our plates but can we get three coffees, please?” Erica ordered politely. “We’re gonna be here for a while.”

Oh jeez.

“So,” she continued when the plates were cleared and the steaming mugs of coffee were brought out. “Tell me about your girlfriend.”

“Oh, well,” Derek breathed. “Her name is Kate. She co-owns a gun range in Brooklyn with her brother. We’ve been dating for two years….” he trails off, not knowing what else to say.

Erica waves her hand in circles. “And how are you guys? Madly in love? The sun itself reflected in her eyes and all that?”

Derek hesitated and laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, I guess, um...she’s not really the romantic type. But, yeah I love her. We’re in love, I mean. It’s serious.” Derek didn’t know why this was so hard. People talk about their significant others all the time, right?

“Good, good,” Erica nodded, sipping her coffee but watching him carefully over the top of her mug. Isaac was looking at him weird, too… “What do you love the most about her?”

Derek fidgeted. “Um, I guess..uh, I love that-” For some reason he was scrambling, and he knew that it was important for him to come up with _something, anything._ “I love that she...she’s headstrong.” Erica nodded. “She knows what she wants, she’s independent, ya know. Fierce.”

Careful watching. “And you have a loving, supportive relationship.”

Uhh… “Every relationship has it’s issues, but yes.”

“So, you support her, she supports you.”

Derek bit his lip. “In our ways.”

“What ways have you supported her?”

Easy. “I always listen to her issues with work or family, no matter the time or day. I go out of my way to make things relaxing for her, ‘cuz I know running a business is stressful. I’ve missed work, crucial days, to go her events, work related or with her friends. I’ve supported her likes and dislikes…”

Erica and Isaac were having a conversation via eye contact and telepathy. “What?”

Isaac cleared his throat. “And what does she do to support _you_?”

“She, um...well, she…” _Anything, Derek._ “She always makes sure I’m not working too hard at work.”

Not a good answer.

“And how does she do that, Derek?” Erica asked pointedly, placing her mug down on the table.

And Derek was done with this conversation. Or maybe he subconsciously knew not to voice the answer. “What exactly is the point of this? Are you trying to prove my girlfriend’s no good and I need Stiles or something?”

“Well, she didn’t say it,” Isaac muttered into his cup.

“I’m not trying to _prove_ anything, Derek,” Erica promised, gently but seriously. “I barely know you. I honestly just wanted to know more about this girlfriend so that when inevitably Stiles cries to me again about how unfairly hot you are, I could tell him to keep his horny paws away from a taken man.” She swallowed. “But, it seems to me that this is a bit more complex than I thought.”

Derek could feel himself getting angrily, both rationally and irrationally. “And what’s complex about it?”

Erica sighed heavily. “Derek. I think I’ve been here before. In high school, I met a guy. Older, charming, confident, hot as sin. Had his shit together. I fell for him hard. And we were exclusive, but...looking back I realized he not once ever told me he loved me. Or reached for my hand first. Or bought me something non-sexual related, just out of the blue.” She brushed back her bangs and blinked her blue eyes a couple times before continuing. “While I was in the relationship, I thought everything was great. So what if he always made the plans and criticized mine? He had more experience so naturally he knew best. So what if he hated my friends and so we only hung out with his? His friends were cooler and maybe I shouldn’t be hanging out with kids so immature anyway. So what if he always tried to get me in the mood when I had said I was tired or still sore from an epileptic attack a few days before? He was hot and I should take advantage of his ‘love’ and affection before he realized I wasn’t worth the effort.” She looked up at Derek, twin stormy oceans filled with pain. “Does any of this, any of it at all, sound familiar to you?”

Derek was short of breath. He was sad for Erica, that she went through that, proud of her for coming out strong and confident, and brilliantly talented and settled with Boyd, a seemingly good guy. But for himself? So fucking confused and panicked.

Because….yes. It all sounded familiar.

“Now, Derek,” Erica said carefully, taking his hand from across the table. “I’m gonna stop there. Because as pushy as I am and was, this is one thing I refuse to pester about. Don’t tell me anymore about Kate or the relationship if you don’t want. And I’m not telling you to break up with her. Because that’s for you to decide. But, I’m gonna say one last thing, and then I’m gonna shut up and pay the check, and then we’re gonna go get ice cream while I tell you about the time Scott and Stiles got trapped naked in a museum supply closet covered in paint and feathers, so that you don’t hate me for being so invasive, okay?”

Derek nodded woodenly.

Erica breathed in slowly and exhaled, gathering her thoughts. “It took me five years to get out of that relationship. I missed out on a college scholarship, traveling, and the birth of my niece. At the end of it, I had no friends, I had lost 25 pounds unhealthily, had taken up smoking, was broke, and was living with someone who was barely home and when he was, got aggravated with every little thing I did when he was. I hated myself and my condition but never him. Derek, I want you to think about this, long and hard when you’re alone sometime: where do you see yourself with Kate in five years? Realistically. With who she is now as a person. All her flaws, dislikes, likes, and quirks. Where do you see yourself in the relationship? Married? With kids? Traveling the world? Fighting crime?” She paused. “And, _purely hypothetically,_ what would you be doing if you weren’t with her? Where would you be in five years? What would you do? How would you _feel?_ What passions would you have? Who would you even be?” She breathed out, let go of his hand and turned to Isaac. “Now, if you’ll let me out, I’ll leave Derek with that entirely inappropriate attack and pay the check up front. I’ll meet you guys out front?” Isaac nodded as he let her out of the booth.

Isaac hovered by the table as Derek sat there stunned. “She- she means well. She’s completely disrespectful of boundaries and private feelings. But...she’s only trying to help. I know that’s a dumb excuse but, she has good intentions.” He sighed. “You should go with your gut. Whatever feels right to you, go with it. If that’s Kate, then be with Kate. I know it doesn’t mean anything, but we wouldn’t hate you either way. I definitely wouldn’t.”

He turned to leave when Derek found his voice. “It does mean something,” he rasped out. “Thank you.” Isaac smiled and nodded, walking out and leaving Derek alone for a moment with his thoughts.

He could a feel a headache forming in the back of his skull, and he was glad he would have the apartment to himself until at least six in the evening.

He wanted to be mad at Erica. It would be easier than dealing with the toxic cocktail of emotions that were whirling in his ribcage. Confusion, defensiveness, exasperation. Fear, pity, hopelessness. Exhaustion, grief, relief. He didn’t even know how to make sense of the last one, so he didn’t try to.

He had to deal with this like he had previously dealt with everything else: shove it down ‘til he couldn’t feel it anymore. Pack it all so deep beneath his lungs ‘til it was just a tight ball of tension in his chest that kept his breathing restricted but his mind carefully clear and blank. A fine trade off, if Derek was concerned.

He took the deepest breath he could, downed the rest of his coffee, and slipped out of the booth towards his fractured and fragile facade of normalcy and mint chocolate chip ice cream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1264634843/playlist/1QYhpzVWZ2BQ60oOetTDGc?si=fwQquI7NT_62zp9QQX2-5A
> 
> Isaac's Hike Inspo: https://flic.kr/p/2fmPijS (Yes, this is Central Massachusetts. :) )
> 
> Comment here or visit me at hoechlinanddylan.tumblr.com


	11. Chapter 11

_'Cause inner demons fight their battles with fire_  
_Inner demons don't play by the rules_  
_They say "Just push them down, just fight them harder_  
_Why would you give up on it so soon?"_

\- Julia Brennan, "Inner Demons"

 

* * *

Stiles walked into the loft to a view of Derek -shirtless, doing some sort of borderline obscene handstand mixed with a split in front of the television- and immediately sputtered into his bottle of Mountain Dew. Derek startled and thudded backwards to the floor.  

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Stiles asked, wiping his mouth and rushing to Derek’s side. He stared resolutely at the other man’s face, ignoring the way his slightly sweaty bare chest was rising and falling with his breathing, heavier than usual from the exertion. Of doing an upside-down split. Shirtless. In Stiles’ living room. Stiles swallowed uneasily, forcing himself to remember the mantra he had to try to engrain in his head:  _ Derek had a girlfriend. _

Derek folded his hands behind his head. He shifted his gaze from the ceiling to Stiles, lips curving into a grin, hazel eyes sparkling. “I’m fine.”

“Alright, good.” Stiles twisted the top back onto his soda bottle, fiddling with it. “Good, yeah. So, uhm… what were you doing?” 

“Yoga,” Derek breathed, tilting his head towards the television and closing his eyes. Stiles looked up to see a woman lying on her stomach and holding her ankles over her head, which probably should’ve been impossible. “One of the instructors you suggested last night to help me with centering?”

Stiles honestly didn’t think Derek would take his advice, but he knew it was important that Derek relax. Derek was always so tense, as if on high alert. Especially when Stiles came home from work last night and asked about his lunch with Erica. His whole body had become a ridged mass of steel, but then said “Good. We talked about you,” sly smirk making Stiles nervous, but something was off. Like Derek was hiding something. He didn’t want to push so he talked about his day and then Scott came home and...that was that. 

Not to mention Derek’s usual bout of emotional oddities over the past few weeks. Usually Derek avoided nightmares by not sleeping (the epitome of health and wellness, that guy). But he’d woken up both Stiles and Scott several times, yelling in the middle of the night. Usually when this happened, Stiles burst into Derek’s room to find him sitting up in bed, sweating and breathing heavily, blankets tangled on the floor. Only once had Derek still been asleep, and that time he’d been screaming more than shouting. Stiles had woken him up with a hard grip to the bicep, calling his name reassuringly until he’d almost had his arm ripped off as Derek grabbed it, hysterical, tears racing down his cheeks. Stiles might have hugged him, waited until Derek had calmed down enough to let go of him, and then spent the rest of the night in Derek’s room, lying next to the man, both of them staring at the ceiling. Neither of them had mentioned it again. Just normal roommate behavior.

Derek always looked exhausted the morning after the nights where he woke up in a frenzy, as if he hadn’t gotten any sleep at all. And Stiles figured he basically hadn’t.

So there were nightmares. Like, really, really bad ones. Derek never talked about them, but Stiles figured they maybe had something to do with how the man reacted every time a firetruck, police car, or ambulance went by. And that issue with the popcorn and smoke detector. If they were outside and he was able, Derek would find a place indoors to wait it out. If it was still too loud, Stiles had seen him shove his fingers in his ears and close his eyes, blocking it out, or bury his head in his arms until the siren had faded. 

There was definitely some information Derek hadn’t disclosed.

But for now Stiles settled for humming and nodding and pointedly not looking at Derek as he backed out of the room and into the kitchen. 

Scott was sitting at the table, a sandwich in front of him. He smirked at Stiles, raising an eyebrow.  “Oh, shut up,” Stiles whispered, rolling his eyes. “Nothing’s happening. Besides, he’s spoken for, remember?” Instead of mentioning how this little tidbit of information slightly killed him, he threw a pen from the counter at Scott. Scott caught it, and Stiles stuck his tongue out at him, pulling out the chair across the table and collapsing into it.

Scott finished off his sandwich. “You think he wants to come to the festival?”

“What festival?” Stiles rocked his soda bottle back and forth on the table.

“Dude. Hello, Nemeton? We go every year.”

Stiles ran a hand down his face. “I knew that. Ugh, I’ve been so busy with the center lately, I completely forgot. It’s today isn’t it?” Scott nodded. “Are there still tickets left?”

Scott smiled. “I got ours last month when I saw the date and saw you sleeping on your paint palette in the living room. I also got one for Allison but she has to pick up a shift today so I’ve got an extra.”

“You complete me,” Stiles gushed. Scott beamed. “We can ask him, but I don’t know if that’s really his kind of scene, you know?”

“What’s not whose scene?” Derek asked, crossing into the room and digging through the refrigerator for a water bottle. He chugged it, head tilted back and throat working slowly, and Stiles had to consciously pull his eyes from his flexing jaw.   

Scott kicked him under the table, coughing. 

“Oh, right,” Stiles said. H e tapped his fingers on the table. “Uh, there’s a music festival that the town hosts. T he Nemeton Festival. There are a lot of newer artists, and normally one or two more well-known groups. It’s this afternoon until the evening.”

Derek nodded. “Sounds like fun.”

“Wait, what? Really?” Scott snorted. Stiles considered splashing his Mountain Dew on him.

“Yeah.” Derek shrugged. “I like music. Despite what you both think, I don’t actually live in a cave.”

“Ha, very ha,” Stiles said.  “I know _that,_ considering you live with me. And this place is way too swank to be a cave.”  Derek raised his eyebrows, dropping his bottle in the recycling bin. He turned on the sink and wet his hand, which he then ran back over his hair to cool down. Stiles cleared his throat loudly. “So, you really want to go to the festival?”  
“Sure.”

“Huh. Okay. Let’s head out in about an hour then, boys!”

  
                                                                                                                            ***

 

“Dude, come  _ on,  _ that band’s having a signing for their new EP!” Scott waved his booklet in Stiles’ face. “We have to go!”

“What band?” Stiles asked, pulling his own folded booklet from his pocket.  

Scott rifled through his. “That one… uh… the sort of punk-ish one-”

“Alpha Status,” Derek offered. Stiles turned to see the man standing behind them, arms crossed over his chest. A thoughtful look crossed his face. “I was really kind of surprised by their sound, especially since a lot of their lyrics were pretty narrative. That’s typically found in folk music. Plus, their use of the fretted dulcimer in punk-rock was fairly unprecedented, at least as far as I know.”  

Stiles raised his eyebrows, his mouth dropping open. He had absolutely no idea where this insight was coming from, but damn, knowledge was attractive. 

Next to him, Scott muttered, “What the hell is he talking about?”

“I liked them.” Derek shrugged. “They were unique.”

“Uh. Yeah,” Stiles said. “I can see that.” He shoved the booklet back in his pocket and clapped his hands. “Okay, so, EP signing?”

Scott cheered and led the way to the other end of the festival grounds, a wide, unused plot in the center of a fairly new subdivision. They wound past a massive tree stump poking up from the ground. Scott stopped next to a tent with a long line protruding from it. “Wow, looks like a lot of people liked them, Derek,” Scott said, taking a place in line. He nodded to a few girls wearing cowboy hats standing in front of them, then pointed to the tattooed guys wearing leather vests behind them. “And all kinds of people, too!”

“They’re crossing genre boundaries, mixing folk with punk-rock and a touch of country. It’s not that surprising that they’d gather fans with all sorts of tastes. Labels will fight for them if they can draw in diverse crowds.”

Derek said this all rather matter-of-factly, and Stiles couldn’t stop staring at the man. This was a whole nother level of his personality being uncovered.  “How do you know so much about music?” he asked as the line moved forward.

“I worked in the business for a while,” Derek answered. He shrugged again. He did that a lot, Stiles was noticing. With his big, muscle-y shoulders.

Stiles waited for more details, but clearly, none were forthcoming. “What’d you do?”

“Read reviews. Found talent. It’s not important.” 

Short sentences and terse answers seemed like a clear conversation deterrent. Stiles nodded and let it drop for the moment, determined to learn more about this latest mystery later. The line moved, and the three of them shuffled forward. 

“Guys, look, there they are!” Scott exclaimed, pointing.

The band was in view now, sitting behind a table with a white plastic covering on it. Draped over the front of the table was a piece of black vinyl cloth, printed with the white silhouette of a large rock formation. On top of the flattest rock sat the letters PRE.

Stiles squinted at the design. “‘P-R-E.’ That’s Pride Rock Entertainment, I think. That’s a pretty big label for them to sign with, right?.”

Scott shrugged. “No idea. Let’s ask our resident music expert. Derek?”  
But Derek’s face was pale, and he was swaying slightly, staring over Stiles’ shoulder.  “Um, Derek?” Stiles reached out and touched the man’s arm gently. He was quivering. “Are you okay?” 

Derek shook his head and took a step back. He bumped into the man standing behind him but didn’t apologize. Stiles stared, worried. 

“I’m just gonna, um… go wait over there,” Derek stuttered, pointing towards the stump. Stiles moved to follow him, but Derek shook his head. “You- don’t worry, I’m fine, you stay. I just need some, uh, air.”

He was already walking away when Stiles called, “Okay, we’ll find you after!” He turned back to Scott, a queasy feeling deep in his stomach. “Do you think he’ll really be okay?”

Scott’s eyebrows were knitted together in concern. “He didn’t look too good. Do you want to go check on him? I can get CDs for all of us, if you want one.”

“Yeah, I should, shouldn’t I? I think I should. But no, I don’t need a CD. Get one for Derek, though, and I’ll pay you back later.”

Scott replied with a nod, and Stiles thanked him before moving to follow Derek. He found him quickly weaving through the crowd, and hurried after him. He tripped over a lady walking in front of him and shouted an apology as he tried not to lose Derek. He didn’t catch up to him until the man was leaning heavily on the tree stump, elbows resting on his knees and head cradled in his palms. He didn’t look up as Stiles approached him.

Stiles lifted a hand to Derek’s shoulder, but it hovered just above his shirt. He didn’t want to touch him and startle him, not when he was like this. Instead, he cleared his throat and spoke softly. “Derek? Are you alright?”

A shuddering breath was the only response. Stiles took that as a solid no.

“Do you want some water? Would that help at all?” There was still no answer. God, Stiles felt so _helpless._ Derek was shaking and obviously upset and Stiles was offering to get him a freaking bottle of water. “Can I do anything? Talk to me, man.”

Finally, Derek lifted his head. He spoke to the ground. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… to freak like that.”

“Dude, don’t apologize,” Stiles said, crouching down so that he could look Derek in the eye. “I just… I don’t know how to help you if I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m kind of worried about you, dude. What with the nightmares and-”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about me.” Derek jerked his head up, looked past Stiles into the crowd. “You  _ don’t  _ have to worry about me. I’m fine.”

Sighing, Stiles stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Derek…”

“Oh, there you guys are.” Scott arrived then, carrying two CD sleeves, black sharpie scrawled across the cardboard covers.  “Here, Derek, this one’s yours.” He held out one of the CDs. Derek slowly took it from him, eyebrows raised in confusion. “They personalized it and everything.”

Derek cocked his head, staring at the CD and running his finger over the hastily-written message on the front. “I didn’t-”

Stiles grinned, doing jazz hands. “Happy birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday,” Derek protested, flipping the CD over in his hands.

“Just accept the present, dork.” 

“Hey, guys,” Scott said. He was looking at his program booklet again. “There’s a pretty good band performing over at the main stage in a few minutes. Wanna catch their set?”

Stiles and Derek agreed, Stiles a bit hesitant, still glancing at his distressed roommate, and the three of them headed in that direction. Derek and Scott were debating the sound quality of different microphones, though Derek seemed a quite a bit more enthused and knowledgeable than Scott (“...there’s going to be a difference between a mic from the Behringer series and one from the Neumann series, but that’s more of a price and quality difference than a purpose difference. Depending on your recording location, and what you’re looking to get out of it, you’re going to want to look into all the options- do you want a condenser or a dynamic mic, and if you get a condenser, do you want a large-diaphragm or a small-diaphragm, and do you need a pop screen…”), and Stiles didn’t understand ninety percent of what he was saying. He was glad Derek was talking, though; it seemed like he was recovering from his earlier panic, and if he was more at ease, then so was Stiles.

And for a while, Stiles  _ was _ at ease. He, Scott, and Derek had found room to stand near the stage for the performance, and the band had gotten through the majority of their set with a dancing, shouting crowd before everything fell to hell.

This particular descent to hellishness was caused by the roar of sirens and the sight of smoke. 

As soon as he heard the former, Stiles whirled around. Derek was still standing behind him, but his eyes were wide and his breathing was uneven. “Derek?”

Derek gasped for air, trembling hands clutching at his chest. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Stiles said. He clutched Derek’s arm and tugged gently, trying to lead him through the tightly packed crowd. The other man stumbled, and Scott caught his other arm and followed behind Stiles, the two of them nearly dragging Derek between them. The other members of the audience, ignorant to their crisis, made exiting the venue difficult. Stiles stepped on more than a few feet and elbowed more than a few ribs, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, even as Scott called apologies over his own shoulder. Between them, Derek had started to sweat, his breathing getting more and more rapid.

When they got out of the crowd, Stiles saw the smoke. It rose in a great grey cloud from a house a few lots down from the empty one that hosted the festival. He pointed away from the smoke. “That way,” he called to Scott, and adjusted his grip on Derek’s arm. 

They ducked away from the festival and behind a neighbor’s shed. Stiles and Scott lowered Derek to the ground. He pulled his knees up to his chest and covered his head with his arms. Stiles rubbed his back. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “Everything is okay. Count with me, alright? Breathe with me.”

Scott left, saying he was going to find some water. Stiles knelt in front of Derek. “Come on, breathe. In through your nose and out through your mouth, okay? In and out. In and out.” Derek’s shoulders rose and fell with Stiles’ words. “You’re going to get through this.”  

Derek’s breathing had evened out a little by the time Scott returned with a bottle of water and some damp paper towels. He handed the paper towels to Stiles and twisted open the water bottle.

Stiles thanked him, grateful that Scott remembered the paper towels. He had always been good at taking care of people. 

“Good, keep breathing, just like that,” Stiles said, smoothing the towels out. “Is it okay if I put this on your neck? It’ll cool you down some.” 

Derek nodded. Stiles gently placed one of the towels on the back of Derek’s neck. He took the water bottle from Scott and held it out to Derek.  

The water shook as it traded hands, and a splash of it landed on Derek’s shirt. Stiles took it back from his quivering hands and hesitated before holding it up to the other man’s mouth for a drink and then handing it back to Scott.  

“You’re going to be okay.” Stiles rested a hand on Derek’s shoulder, moving his thumb in small circles.  They stayed like this for… well, Stiles wasn’t sure how long. His focus was on Derek, keeping him breathing steadily, keeping the paper towel cool with water from the water bottle, keeping him hydrated with drinks from the same.  His words were a stream of assurances. 

So, it was some unspecified amount of time later that Derek seemed to physically pull his body back into cooperation. He lifted his head, blinking heavily, and let out a long, deep breath.  Stiles let his hand sit on his shoulder for a moment longer. Derek frowned when he drew it away, rubbing his own hands over his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” 

Stiles rocked back on his heels.  “It’s okay, Derek. It isn’t your fault.”

Derek’s frown deepened. He pulled the towel off his neck and dropped his hands in his lap, twisting it. “It shouldn’t have happened and I’m ruining the festival for your guys.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s your fault. And the festival is not important.” Stiles glanced back over his shoulder to see Scott still standing there, holding the empty bottle and looking unsure. 

“Scotty-boy, can you go grab another water?”  

“Yeah.” Scott dashed away.

Derek was still frowning down at the towel, which he was methodically ripping apart, and Stiles let out a long sigh, moving to sit beside him.  “Listen, Derek-”

“Stiles, please, don’t-”

“When I was eleven, I had panic attacks. A lot of them.” Stiles paused, trying to gather himself. It never got any easier to say the next part. “They started when my mom died.”

Derek’s hands stilled for a moment and, softly, in a voice that sounded almost broken, he said, “I’m sorry.” 

Stiles shrugged, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “My point is, panic attacks suck.” He leaned over to press his shoulder to Derek’s. The other man tensed briefly, but relaxed just as quickly. “But they’re not your fault. And you can get through them.”

They were silent for a moment, and Stiles thought that was going to be the end of the conversation before Derek suddenly asked, “How did you get through them? Get them to stop?”

Stiles thinks for a moment.  “I guess I just kind of got used to the things that triggered me, after a while. And art...art helped a lot. It let me express the things I needed to before they overtook me, you know? Talking about it helped a lot, too,” he said pointedly. “It allowed me to dissociate harmless everyday events with my trauma and pain.” He brushed a bit of paper towel remains off of Derek’s knee, forcing himself to return his hand to his own lap when he was done. “It didn’t happen all at once. But over time, they got more and more rare, and less intense. It’ll happen sometime, Derek.” Derek nodded, but didn’t speak. Stiles took that as a sign to keep talking. “So, when I started drawing, it was just on paper with a regular old pencil. Then, in middle school, I kind of stole some paint from the art teacher, and tried that. I experimented with chalk, too, but that’s not really my thing.” He waved his hand carelessly. “Anyway, I went from painting on paper to sidewalks to buildings, and apparently my dad - he’s a cop, I don’t think I mentioned that - wasn’t too pleased with that.  The station was getting a lot of calls from people about graffiti - which, you would think that New Yorkers would have more to worry about, right? I wasn’t exactly subtle when painting. Like, I wore this red hoodie all the time which stands out, you know? He took the fall for me more than I like to think about.” 

“But you’re still doing street art.”

“Exactly. Not graffiti. Such a crass term.” 

“Why Boston?”

Stiles leaned his head back against the shed. “I couldn’t take making my dad so upset. He was so stressed, and he paid most of the fines for me. But I couldn’t just stop with it, you know? So I just… left.” Stiles closed his eyes and looked at his hands, arms propped up on his knees. “When Scott was offered a veterinary assistantship in Boston, it took me all of three months to make my decision, pack up what I had and follow him.” He had left home suddenly and on not-so-great terms, and since then he had seen his father four times in just as many years. The heavy guilt of pushing away his only surviving blood relative blindsided him often in the most inopportune times. 

“I ran away, and, man, that kills me. I miss my old man. But it would also kill me to stop painting, and even if I quit with the street art and went exclusively to canvas and stuff… it would still be wolves. I don’t think my dad can handle the wolves.”

Derek turned to him then, brow furrowed. “The wolves are amazing.” 

Stiles’ chuckle came out rather humorlessly. “Thank you. They were my mom’s favorite animal. I think… I think it just hurts him too much. It hurts me not to paint them, but it hurts him to see them.” 

“Is that why you don’t sell or display your art formally?”

Stiles shrugged. “The main reason. I don’t want him to somehow catch wind of it and either be devastated, or gather up the nerve to track me down and convince me to go back. ‘S’why I haven’t really seen or spoken to him. He’s the only one that could convince me. That and we said some pretty choice words to each other when I left.”

Picking up the pieces of the torn up paper towel, Derek pressed their shoulders together more firmly, and Stiles felt his heart rate increase.  “I guess there’s really no good advice, especially coming from me.” Derek held his hand in front of Stiles’ face and waves it around, scattering paper bits all over his chest and lap. “But, Stiles, you know… family… it’s probably the most important thing to me. And I gather it is to you, too. Don’t forget what matters to you.”

Stiles nodded, split between smiling and frowning, gazing into wounded, intense hazel eyes. Derek knew more than anyone Stiles had ever met about music but wouldn’t say why, had terrible nightmares and panic attacks, and then listened to Stiles’ problems before throwing paper like it was confetti. He clearly loved his family dearly, yet he was alone in a strange new city.  

He was a mystery, and Stiles hoped he would soon get the chance to figure him out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more angsty chapter after this and then we get somewhere I promise ;)
> 
> Inspiration playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1264634843/playlist/1QYhpzVWZ2BQ60oOetTDGc?si=fwQquI7NT_62zp9QQX2-5A
> 
> Comment here or visit me at hoechlinanddylan.tumblr.com :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay. Life and Endgame got in the way...
> 
> Enjoy!

_Help me; It's like the walls are caving in_  
_Sometimes I feel like giving up-_  
_No medicine is strong enough-_  
_Someone help me,_  
_I'm crawling in my skin;_  
_Sometimes I feel like giving up_  
_But I just can't....._

\- Shawn Mendes, "In My Blood"

* * *

 

“Dude, where are all of our cups? And plates? And silverware?”

“Uh….the cabinet?”

“If they were in the cabinet, I wouldn’t be asking that question, now would I, Scotty?”

Derek looked up from his magazine at his two roommates facing off in the middle of the kitchen from his lounging position on the couch. He had had an abnormally busy day at work, and so he had gotten home three hours later than his normal time, making him a bit sluggish, to say the least.

“Well, check the dishwasher, then.”

Derek heard the dishwasher creak open and then slam shut aggressively.

“What the fuck, Scott.”

“What?!”

“You forgot to run the dishwasher.... _again._ Now we have no clean dishes.”

“Dude, it wasn’t my turn to wash them!”

“It’s Thursday. Thursday, Scott. Not Wednesday or Friday or St. Patrick’s Day, but Thursday. And Thursday is ‘Scott Washes the Damn Dishes Day’.”

“I don’t have Thursdays anymore, remember? On Thursdays, dishes get washed by….”

Derek squeezed his eyes shut. Damn. There was a heavy pause in the kitchen, and then he heard soft footsteps come closer to the living room where he was lounging.

“Soooooo, Derek…?”

“I’m sorry,” Derek rushed out, hopping to his feet.  “I’m an idiot. I put the dishes in the washer this morning but I guess I forgot to start it. I know I haven’t been pulling my share of the weight around here and the least I could do is wash the fucking dishes when I’m supposed to.” He tried to skirt past Stiles to get to the kitchen and maybe _attempt_ to be a decent housemate, but Stiles grabbed his arm before he could get away.

“Whoa there, Flash. What’s your damage?” Stiles asked him, amber eyes searching his. “You’ve totally been pulling your weight. More than your weight, even. Like, your weight plus a small child.”

Derek huffed and avoided Stiles’ confused expression by staring at the triskele painting on the wall. “Obviously not. I screwed up. You guys have been housing me for a month, and I _know_ my portion of the rent is not what I’m supposed to be paying, and dealing with my shit, and now I can’t even do my fair share.”

“Dude, relax! So you forgot to start the dishwasher. Oh, man! Alert the FBI! We’ve got an international criminal mastermind on the loose!”

“Stiles.”

“ _Derek_ . It’s not a big-” Stiles took a big breath and placed his hands on Derek’s shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Look, I know you have problems with responsibility and carelessness.” Derek winced at that. “But, dude, I think you are _way_ too hard on yourself. It’s just dishes,” he shrugged. “Scott’ll clean them.”

“Hey!”

“By hand,” Stiles added, smirking over his shoulder at the indignant expression on his other roommate’s face, glaring, open-mouthed, across the space.

Derek shook his head. “I’ll wash them. It’s only right. I’ll also wash Saturday’s dishes, to make it up to Scott for almost taking the fall for me.”

Stiles squinted his eyes. “You don’t have to-”

“Yes, he does.”

“Shut up, McCall.”

“I want to,” Derek insisted, taking Stiles’ hands from off of his shoulders, giving them a small squeeze, before moving past him toward the kitchen.

There was a pause before he heard Stiles sigh heavily behind him. “Fine. But just remember our motto!” he warned.

Derek looked over his shoulder and lifted an eyebrow, blindly opening the dishwasher door. “Which is…?”

“Tell him, Scott.”

Scott looked up from his pudding cup and beamed, dimples on full display. “‘Whatever occur-ies, have no worries.’”

“No, Scott.”

“Fine. It’s just ‘No Worries’. But quite frankly, I like mine better.”

Derek shook his head, smiling against his will, and turned back to his task.

He’d been living with the boys for about a month now and….he didn’t hate it. Every once in a while he would mess up, or, as Stiles put it, “freak out about random crap that no one with a life cares about,” and Derek would feel that insane sense of guilt and self-deprecation that he felt the day after the fire. But then, Scott would tell him about the time his mom had to walk home alone at 2am in New York after her hospital shift ended because he was too busy hooking up with his then-girlfriend to remember to pick her up. Or Stiles would remind him that he hasn’t spoken to his dad in five months, longer if you didn’t count the 43 second “Happy Birthday, Dad” phone call he made before he changed his number, which Stiles sure didn’t. Derek didn’t know why they were trying to help him, but he was grateful for it. He was slowly getting back to some semblance of normalcy, in the conscious sense.

In the subconscious sense, however, he was still a fucking wreck. He was self-aware enough to know that he was repressing. Everything. Hard. He _still_ couldn’t get air into his lungs fast enough whenever he heard sirens too loud, or smelled smoke too strong, suffering embarrassing attacks that ruined pleasant hangouts with the boys, or lunches with Erica, or quiet walks in the Common. And if anything his nightmares had gotten worse. Now, they were composed of less specific memories, and more panic and adrenaline fused abstract sensations, which were more terrifying somehow. After waking up in a cold sweat, shaking with his heart pounding, he just gave up on trying to sleep at all. He took to pretending to retire for the night, just lying in bed long enough until he knew that Scott and Stiles would have been fast asleep, and then hitting his floor, pounding through a mindless, brutal exercise that he made up as he went along. He often lost count with the amount of crunches, sit ups, pull-ups on the doorsill, and sock-padded jumping jacks he did before dawn. After the second week, he didn’t even feel exhausted anymore, just numb.

Stiles caught him a few times, because of course he did, sharp gaze and quick mind of his, but when Derek snapped at him in a sleep-deprived rage one night for butting in his private life, his roommate left him alone. The next morning, Derek extended an apology offering made up of twelve sugar donuts with extra sprinkles. Stiles accepted them excitedly, of course, and offered Derek an extra strong black coffee in return. All was well, for now, but Derek knew that Stiles wouldn’t let it go for too long. With the nightmares, the chores meltdowns, the dreaded Nemeton festival that he was completely avoiding thinking about, and the nudges from Erica, he knew it was only a matter of time before his well-meaning roommate demanded an explanation.

It turns out that a matter of time was only a few days later. Derek was on his way back from his morning jog when he heard the first wails of the sirens. He was less than two blocks from the loft, but his footsteps faltered and his breathing grew unsteady as the noise grew louder, and an ambulance and firetruck swept past him, lights flashing. Derek’s hand flew to his chest; his heart was racing, vision blurring. _Not again_ , he thought. _Just fucking breathe, you idiot_. He backed into the brick wall behind him and slid down, vaguely feeling the rough surface scratch his back through his t-shirt, and covered his eyes with his hands, struggling to catch his breath.

The next thing he knew, there was a hand resting on his shoulder.  

“Derek?” It was Stiles. It was always Stiles. Stiles’ raspy, soft voice, Stiles’ warm, firm hand. Derek lifted his head slowly, blinking at the other man. “Hey, buddy, you’re alright. Were you on your way back?” At Derek’s nod, Stiles bobbed his head. “Sirens?” Derek let out a long breath and Stiles patted his shoulder gently. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”  They sat there for a minute, Derek counting his breathing, until Stiles turned and squinted at him. “I have an idea, but you have to follow me.”

  
  
                                                                                                              ***  


“What are we doing at the warehouse?”  Derek stuck his hands in his pockets as Stiles pocketed his keys and rolled one of the doors open, an image of Kirby shimmering off its surface.  “Setting up for another party?”

Stiles snorted and gestured for Derek to follow him.  “Nah, the next party isn’t for a couple months.” He headed to the corner of the building where some canvases of different sizes leaned against the wall.  Derek’s eyes flickered between Stiles, who was tapping his nose with one annoyingly long forefinger, and the blank canvases he was staring at. Maybe he was here to give Stiles some feedback on an idea he had, or to work on a new logo.

Finally, Stiles eased one of the canvases out of the group, saying, “A sixteen by twenty should work well.”  He held it out to Derek.

Confused, Derek took it from him.  It had a different weight than he was expecting; lighter, but somehow more solid.  He held the edges carefully with both hands. “What are you gonna do with it?” he asked as Stiles opened a huge storage locker surrounded by large paint cans.  Smaller tubes of paint, brushes of every size, and cans of spray paint were lined up inside, along with other art supplies that Derek couldn’t identify.

“I’m not touching it,” Stiles answered, pulling out a palette and some brushes, which he passed to Derek.  Derek moved the canvas to one hand and took them in the other. He ran his thumb over the soft bristles of a brush.  “This is all you.” Stiles filled his arms with tubes of paint and kicked the locker door shut before moving to the center of the warehouse, his footsteps loud on the concrete.  Derek trailed after him, frowning.

Stiles crouched down and let the paint tubes clatter genty to the floor.  “Come on, sit down,” he said. Derek set the canvas, brushes, and palette down before kneeling beside them.  Stiles clapped his hands. “Alright, so go ahead and use whatever paint you what, whatever brush you want, and make… whatever you want!”

Derek’s brow furrowed.  “Why?”

“Derek… don’t take this the wrong way, but I know something’s going on, okay?  You have panic attacks and nightmares, and you-”

“I’m fine, I told you that.”  

“Dude, you can’t just pretend that-”

Derek squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers curling into fists. “I’m not _pretending_ anything, Stiles. I’m _fine_ , I don’t….” He paused, taking a deep breath, and lowered his voice. It wasn’t like Stiles was trying to pressure him; he meant well. “I’m okay, honestly. I don’t need to talk about it or-”

“Hey, listen,” Stiles said.  Derek unclenched his fists and opened his eyes, picking at a loose thread on his gym shorts.  He watched as he twisted it first one way, then the other. “You don’t need to tell me anything, okay? I think you desperately need to, at least to _someone,_ but I’m not going to make you.” Stiles’ voice softened. “I just think… painting helped me after I lost my mom, remember?”  Out of the corner of his eye, Derek saw Stiles lining the paints up in order of the rainbow. The other man was focused on the tubes, a pensive, vulnerable expression on his face. “So whatever you’re going through… maybe it’ll help you, too. In some way. Just try it. Please.”

Lifting his gaze as Stiles did the same, their eyes met from a foot away.  The sunlight flooding through the high windows deepened his honey brown irises, a slight flush across the pale skin covering his curved nose and high cheekbones. Derek had to tear his own eyes away. He bit his lip and picked up a paintbrush, rolling it in his palm. “Alright. How do I start?”

“Just pick a color, and a brush, and let your hands do the rest,” Stiles instructed. Derek inspected a tube of bright red paint. “Don’t think too hard about it, just do whatever seems right.” Stiles smiled softly as he stood up. “I’ll let you do your thing.”  

Derek frowned at the canvas, nothing coming to mind. He didn’t know what to do; his creative skill wasn’t exactly Picasso level. He tried to think of what Stiles maybe wanted him to portray. Something that would channel his emotions onto the page. Something that would get him to...feel without imploding. Something that would call up the tight ball of repression beneath his lungs without suffocating.

He tried to think of a nightmare, a small one, that caused him to wake up in a sweat, but not screaming his vocal cords hoarse. Images of red, orange, yellow against black velvet flashed in his mind. When Stiles patted his shoulder as he walked past, he reached up and grasped his wrist, a warm heartbeat pulsing beneath his fingertips. He shook his head and looked up at the slender boy. “Just -stay?” The request came out as a whisper.

Stiles’ forehead wrinkled, but he nodded, squeezing Derek’s shoulder before sitting on the floor near him.  

First, Derek slowly covered the canvas in black paint, making sure to evenly cover the entire canvas. He could see Stiles fidgeting, absently playing with his shoelaces and chewing the collar of his plaid button-up as he watched Derek’s hands. Once no more white was visible, he squirted some red paint onto the palette, and mixed part of the leftover black paint with it, resulting in a smokey, dreary maroon.  It was familiar and miserable but somehow he knew he wanted that specific color on the cloth.

_Your mother and I are worried that you just aren’t CEO material._

He dragged the brush through the paint and swept it over the canvas, leaving behind a bold streak that faded towards the top. He swallowed hard, repeating the motion over and over again before grabbing the tube of orange paint. Sirens and shouting echoed in his ears as he sat in the empty warehouse. He remembered taking in these colors almost two months ago; subconsciously but he remembered all the same.

_Everyone thinks it’s your fault._

He didn’t want to think about this, and his mind wanted to switch to something else automatically, like he’d been doing every day since smoke and fire and guilt encoded themselves in his nervous system. But his hand kept moving, kept wanting to visualize the abstract nightmares he punished himself with at night. Soon small splotches of yellow joined the rising waves of deep red and melting orange.  Derek barely noticed what he was painting; everything was getting blurry and he felt warm.

_Get out of here! Do something! Go!_

His hands almost seemed to act independently as his mind wandered foggily, and he watched tensely as they added tiny flecks of crimson that flew into the dark corners of the canvas and thin shadows of blue that stretched along the bottom half.  

_Derek. Nephew. Talia’s….your mother is dead._

Heat crawled up his neck and his eyes stung. He dabbed another spot of red, then dropped the brush to the floor, noticing for the first time that his hands were trembling.  Flexing his fingers, he took a few deep breaths before looking up at Stiles, whose eyes were wide.

“So… how do you feel?” he whispered, concerned, after a moment.

Derek looked at his hands, covered in drying paint, still shaking.  His nose was a little bit stuffy and his muscles ached like he had just run a marathon.  He hugged his knees to his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, to answer but his throat closed at the last second. His eyes burned. He couldn’t do this anymore. He deserved it, but he wasn’t strong enough, couldn’t get through it like Stiles. He was tired of the nightmares and not sleeping and the grueling exercises. Couldn’t live life afraid of smoke and flames and responsibility and failure and sirens and judgement. He wasn’t built like this, he wanted….he wanted…..

He wanted his mom.

“Derek?” Stiles whispered, coming closer, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Derek’s eyes blurred.

And he cracked.

“I miss her, Stiles,” Derek admitted, brokenly, tears flowing over his eyelashes.

“Who?” his roommate asked, gentle, barely a breath.

“My mom,” Derek hiccuped. “I miss her so much.” And that was it. The faucet turned on and not even his large hands could trap the river of tears behind his eyes, or stop the sobs from escaping from his throat.

“Oh, honey,” he barely heard Stiles murmur, and he felt lean but strong arms encircle his head and shoulders, crashing his forehead into the younger man’s chest. He was suffocating. The tight ball of tension he had carefully buried beneath his lungs rising and getting stuck in his throat. “Easy, now, let it out, Der.” His hair was being stroked and he felt like a child, which was both welcome and discomforting. He could hear himself, wailing, echoes ricocheting off the warehouse walls, but couldn’t stop. All these _what ifs, should haves,_ and _could haves_ increasing the flow of tears, the volume of his cries, the grip he had on the front of Stiles’ shirt.

He missed his mom. Her cooking. Her laugh. Her long black hair. Her eye rolls. Her smirks. Her singing. Her constant check ups, and “I’m proud of you”’s, and “I love you”’s, and mango perfume. The click of her heels, her rants about the government and lukewarm tea and cliffhangers. Her love of fall and Central Park and MoonPies. Her hugs and obsession with Say Yes to the Dress.

 _Her._ Just...her.

And he would never see her again.

He held onto Stiles and just...grieved.

  
  
                                                                                                                  ***

 

Derek knew that it must’ve only been a few minutes since he broke down but it felt like a different time period entirely when he finally stopped shaking. He sighed and wiped his face, probably looking like a complete trainwreck. He wasn’t aware Stiles had been rocking him slowly back and forth until the movement stopped. His ear was placed just underneath Stiles’ collarbone, a steady but slightly quick heartbeat a calming lullaby. He was drained and he just wanted to be held in these arms for the rest of his life. But he needed to put on his big boy pants now.

He gently pushed out of Stiles arms and looked at the boy in front of him. Stiles was wary - of course he was; Derek was a ticking-time bomb- but his eyes were gentle and understanding, a few tears of his own glistening on his long eyelashes.

Derek tried to clear his throat but his voice came out gravely anyway. “Thank you.” He tried to convey everything in those two words, all the gratitude of today and the last month.

Stiles understood. “You’re welcome, Derek.” He said nothing, just continued gazing at him softly and undemanding, letting him decide what to do next.

Derek took a deep breath and turned so that he was facing the boy straight on, legs crossed and elbows on his knees. Stiles mimicked him immediately.

“My name is Derek Elliott Hale.” The furrow appearing between Stiles’ eyebrows was his only reaction to hearing news he already knew. “My mother,” Derek swallowed, “was Talia Marie Hale, CEO of Pride Rock Entertainment, also known as PRE, a record label based in New York City.” Stiles eyes widened and mouth opened, but it closed a moment later, allowing Derek to continue. “I was vice president of this company, Talia’s brother, my uncle Peter CFO, my older sister Laura marketing director, and my younger sister Cora an aspiring singer but working as an intern in the scouting department. Talia inherited PRE from her father when he died, and was planning on transferring the company to me when she retired this year. She wasn’t really a typical CEO. She could’ve gotten someone else to do the daily operations or let me handle it because _theoretically_ I was more than capable and could stand the push. But she loved her job and being more hands on,” Derek talked softly, voice wavering but he was all cried out at the moment so he persevered. “We have some extended family across the country but growing up, it was really just the five of us after my mom and dad got divorced a little after Cora was born. We took vacations together, celebrated together...we trusted each other.

“I..was never really a responsible person. Growing up as the only boy, jock in a private high school, good genes...I got away with a lot. Not anything bad, but mostly with not pulling my fair share. I was cocky and charming and could smile my way out of doing extra work. I do really have a passion for music and music management, though, so I always knew I wanted to take over the company some day, especially since Laura expressed more interest in advertising and social platforms.

“A few days before I was supposed to take over, I blew off some important work I was supposed to do to go see Kate instead. My mom covered for me, decided to stay late so that the forms could be filed before the morning. She was really the only person that had faith I could pull myself together in time to run a multi-billion dollar company, but..she did baby me. There….” Derek took a deep breath. “There was a fire. Caused by an electrical issue. An issue I knew about and was supposed to report but didn’t apparently. Another thing I blew off. It happened suddenly, must’ve caused an explosion or blocked the exits.” He swallowed. “She died.” Stiles reach forward and took his hand, squeezing it tightly but saying nothing. “When I got to the scene, there was fire and smoke and sirens and people everywhere. I caught up with my uncle and he said that people were blaming me. That they knew what had happened and were out for blood or something. He said the best thing for me to do was to get out of town. Lay low for a while. So, I did. I tried to call the next day but..” he shook his head. “I think I made matters worse. He told me things were hostile and hectic and he was doing damage control. Ordered me not to reach out to anyone in New York until he gave word that things had died down.” Derek shrugged. “It was the least I could do. So that’s what I did.” He looked up into Stiles’ eyes. “And what I’ve been doing ever since.”

Stiles was silent for a long while, processing. He squeezed Derek’s hand and let go. He breathed out. “Well, Derek Elliott Hale, you’ve been dealt a truly sucky hand.”

Laughter, loud and genuine, burst out of Derek, breaking the tension of the last hour or so. “Tell me about it.”

Stiles smirked, though eyes still calculating and gentle. “This explains sooo much.” Derek nodded. “Like, only a former rich person would be fluent in French _and_ Latin.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Beaucoup de gens connaissent le français, Stiles.”

“See? Giant red flag.” Derek glared at him. “More seriously, though...Thank you, Derek. For trusting me and telling me all this. That was so much information and I’m gonna need a while to process everything and connect the dots, and then I’ll have a million and one questions I’ll need to ask you at inopportune times. But for now, I just have one.” He leaned forward, taking both his hands in his. “Are you okay?”

Derek took the question as seriously as it was asked, for once. He closed his eyes, breathing in, holding it for a moment, and slowly breathing out, assessing. He blinked his eyes open. “Holistically? No, not really. There’s a lot I need to fix...to work out. Before I’m there. But, I feel lighter than I have since the accident. And not a fake light, or a distracted lightness. But like I just shed a couple pounds.”

Stiles half-smiled knowingly. “Metaphorical baggage has weight, too, Der. And you just unloaded some onto the canvas, and allowed me to take some as well. Lightness means progress.”

Derek nodded slowly. “It’s good. I might not be okay in the grand scheme of things, but I’m okay right now.”

Stiles smiled brilliantly. “Great. We’re gonna strive for more ‘okay, right nows’. More ‘Okay Today’s.”  

Derek looked at his roommate- his _friend_ , hands still in his. The wide smile from being able to help Derek, being able to understand him finally. The chocolate hair a mess on his head in the absence of a beanie. Amber eyes sparkling with selfless emotion, unobstructed by the black frames peeking out of his shirt pocket. Derek looked at Stiles and was awestricken-

_Flutter, flutter._

“Thank you,” Derek whispered again, tears threatening anew, but he fought them back, already subjecting the man in front of him to enough.

Impossibly Stiles’ smile got wider, but the pretty flush Derek loved was back spreading across his nose. “You. Are. Welcome,” he announced, accentuating each word with a squeeze of Derek’s hands before letting go. “I’m here to support you no matter what.”

Derek froze.

Stiles frowned. “Derek?”

“S-support?” Derek stuttered out.

Stiles tilted his head. “Yeah...support. Like, I’m here for you. No matter what. No matter what you want to do. If you want to talk, work, paint, avoid, cry, fly a kite, whatever. I’m here. For support. You know?”

“Yeah,” Derek said softly, realization creeping up on him.

“Derek?” Stiles called again, concern evident.

Derek shook his head and smiled at him. “Sorry, I’m good. I was just remembering something. Nothing bad, I promise.”

Stiles grinned with relief. “Good. Now, are we good to go, big guy? I’m getting kinda grumbly and after huge emotional breakthroughs, I prescribe a large pizza each and personal pints of Ben and Jerry’s in front of a tv of mindless action movies.”

“ _300_ followed by _The Transporter_?” Derek suggested, standing up and helping Stiles clean up.

Stiles put his hand to his chest. “It’s like we’re soulmates, or somethin’!” he exclaimed, sounding like a southern belle.

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. The day had been draining but his mind was whirling. Glancing at the man in front of him perfectly organize the canvases by width and paints by hue while listing the pros and cons of the _300_ gladiators’ leather “attire”, he now had the answers to Erica’s rhetorical questions posed to him a few weeks ago.

And he knew now what he had to do.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1264634843/playlist/1QYhpzVWZ2BQ60oOetTDGc?si=fwQquI7NT_62zp9QQX2-5A
> 
> Art inspiration: https://flic.kr/p/TF3SDY
> 
> Comment here or visit me at hoechlinanddylan.tumblr.com :)


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